.   OF  CALIF.   I,TB*/n?Y.   IAS  ANGELES 


M.    E.    W.    SHEKWOOD 


A  TRANSPLANTED 
ROSE 

By  M.  E.  W.  Sherwood 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1900 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1882,  by 

HARPER    &     BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

All  rifhtt  ratrted. 


A  TRANSPLANTED  ROSE. 


"Mr  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan  to  Mrs.  Mortimer,  one 
fine  morning  in  November,  "  who  do  you  think  arrived 
last  night  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  the  Empress  Eugenie,  perhaps." 

"  No ;  worse  than  that.  My  niece  from  the  West — not 
from  any  of  the  polished  centres,  like  St.  Louis,  or  Chicago, 
or  Milwaukee,  but  from  six  hundred  miles  from  anywhere ; 
and  ray  brother,  her  father,  wishes  me  to  introduce  her  into 
society." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  Well,  rather ;  she  has  bright  eyes  and  good  teeth  ;  but 
she  is  absolutely  a  savage.  She  has  no  ideas  of  style,  or 
etiquette,  or  of  manners,  but  she  is  ambitious  of  social  suc- 
cess, and  there  is  something  so  very  masterful  about  her 
that  I  believe  she  will  succeed.  Now  I  am  out  of  the 
world,  you  know — ill-health,  and  mourning,  and  all  that ; 
I  can  only  give  her  a  background  and  good  maxims.  Will 
you  see  to  the  practical  workings?  Now  do  oblige  me, 
Sophia." 

"  You  are  asking  a  great  deal,  Laura,"  said  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, tapping  a  very  pretty  foot  with  her  parasol. 

"  I  know  I  am,  Sophia ;  but  you  declared  last  winter 


2132720 


2  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

that  you  wanted  an  emotion  ;  that  society  bored  you  ;  that 
you  wished  you  had  something  to  make  it  worth  your 
while  to  go  to  the  Patriarchs,  and  the  F.  C.  D.  C. ;  and  that 
you  were  relapsing  into  the  after-dinner  somnolency  of  old 
age.  Now  I  offer  you  a  piquant  sensation.  You  can  be- 
come the  modern  Pygmalion,  and  evoke  a  woman  from 
this  statue,  and  oblige  me."  Mrs.  Trevylyan  looked  anx- 
ious. Mrs.  Mortimer  is  a  worldling,  a  fashionable  woman, 
and  a  snob,  afraid  of  the  powers  who  rule  fashion  ;  but  she 
has  one  tender,  womanly,  vulnerable  spot.  She  does  love 
her  old  friend  Laura  Trevylyan,  and  she  is,  as  are  many 
women  of  her  creed,  externally  good-natured. 

"  Well,  Laura,  I'll  undertake  it  for  your  sake,  reserving 
to  myself  the  privilege  of  dropping  the  cake  at  any  moment, 
if  I  find  it  too  hot.  You  know  I  have  never  yet  endorsed 
a  failure,  and  if  your  niece  is  a  hopeless  case,  why,  I  must 
retire  after  giving  her  a  chance.  You  know  what  New 
York  society  is,  demanding  beauty  or  great  wealth,  an  ad- 
mirable social  position,  or  some  powerful  pusher  from  be- 
hind, to  make  a  girl  a  success.  You  know  Fashion  does 
not  pretend  to  a  heart,  therefore  we  must  have  no  hope  of 
any  help  from  its  kindness.  We  must  storm  it  as  one  does 
a  fort." 

"  I  know  it  all,  and  therefore  I  retired  from  it ;  but  my 
niece  has  all  the  courage  of  inexperience,  and  desires  it." 

"  Neither  pretty  nor  rich,  and  probably  obstinate  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  musingly. 

"  I  think  you  may  credit  her  with  a  little  beauty  and 
some  money,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  smiling,  "  but  do  not 
parade  her  as  an  heiress.  If  we  can  get  over  her  own  con- 
ceit that  she  knows  what  is  proper  in  dress  and  manners, 
we  may  do  something  with  her." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  3 

At  this  moment  a  rather  light  footstep  was  heard  on  the 
stair,  and  the  ladies  stopped  talking. 

"  Here  she  comes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  My 
niece,  Miss  Rose  Chadwick,  Mrs.  Mortimer." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  saw  a  very  self-possessed  young  girl  of 
eighteen,  with  beautiful  dark  hair,  a  fine  brunette  com- 
plexion, and  a  slender  figure,  tall  and  not  ungraceful. 

"  How  do  you  do,  marm  ?"  said  Miss  Chadwick,  extend- 
ing a  hand  to  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "  I  expect  you  are  my  aunt's 
friend,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  many  years,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  trembling  all 
over  as  she  heard  a  nasal  pronunciation,  and  the  belligerent 
attack  upon  the  letter  r  which  garnished  Miss  Chadwick's 
discourse. 

"  I  hope  yon  are  not  fatigued  with  your  long  journey  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  Well,  yes,  'm,  I  am  some  fatigued.  Nobody  could 
travel  six  days  and  nights  steady  without  being  some  tired. 
I  had  Emerson  to  read,  though,  and  that  was  a  comfort. 
I'm  awful  bookish,  and  father  says,  '  Give  Rose  a  book,  and 
that's  the  last  of  her.'  But  I  want  to  see  something  of 
the  world,  so  I  came  on  to  Aunt  Laura's  to  go  into  New 
York  society.  I  should  like  to  be  fashionable,  and  dance, 
and  sing,  and  improve  myself.  I  have  not  had  any  chances 
at  Chadwick's  Falls,  but  father  says  if  I  am  a  good  girl  I 
shall  go  to  Europe  next  year."  (She  pronounced  it  year-r-r.) 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  taken  a  photograph  of  the  speaker  as 
she  talked,  and  found  a  charming  expression  in  the  frank 
eyes,  and  a  pretty  smile  playing  round  the  fresh  red  lips. 
Miss  Chadwick's  voice  was  agreeable  too,  although  unculti- 
vated. Her  hands,  those  outposts  of  female  beauty,  were 
small  and  well  formed,  though  brown  as  a  berry,  and  Mra. 


4  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Mortimer  discerned  a  pair  of  pretty  feet  and  trig  ankles 
under  the  short  travelling  dress. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  risk,  but  I  declare  I  will  try  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  started  at  this  moment  to  go  across  the 
room  for  her  work.  She  was  lame,  and  moved  with  diffi- 
culty. 

Rose  Chadwick  jumped  up  a  foot  from  her  seat  and 
threw  her  arms  around  her  aunt,  nearly  frightening  her  to 
death. 

"  Sit  down,  Aunt  Laura,  and  let  me  get  the  work ;  you 
shall  not  stir  while  I'm  here ;"  and  she  kissed  her  aunt,  and 
danced  across  the  room  like  a  gazelle. 

"  A  wild  vine,  but  luxuriant ;  it  will  bear  grapes  yet," 
thought  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"As  soon  as  you  have  had  time  to  get  some  dresses 
made,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  at  my  Thursday  even- 
ings," said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  admiring  the  girl's  figure. 

"Oh,  I  have  got  dresses  enough,"  said  the  young  girl, 
"  and  made  of  the  best  of  stuff.  I've  got  a  brocade,  and  a 
velvet,  and  a  satin,  all  made  up  at  Chadwick's  Falls,  and 
lots  of  real  lace  that  poor  ma  had,  and  I  expect  I  sha'n't 
want  anything  more  here.  I'll  come.  Let's  see — to-mor- 
row's Thursday,  ain't  it?" 

Mrs.  Mortimer's  heart  sank,  and  Mrs.  Trevylyan  turned 
pale.  Here  was  a  dilemma.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  this 
frank  daughter  of  nature  that  those  dresses  which  she  loved 
must  be  burned,  or  otherwise  gotten  rid  of.  To  insinuate 
that  brocade  and  old  lace  were  not  proper  for  a  young  girl, 
but  that  white  muslin,  gauze,  tulle,  and  the  least  possible 
bit  of  satin  and  velvet  to  garnish  the  dress  were  alone  proper 
for  a  debutante — who  should  tell  Rose  Chadwick  this? 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  5 

"  Oh,  I  shall  so  like  to  come  to  your  Thursdays,"  said 
Rose,  skipping  over  and  kissing  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

A  breath  of  wild  roses,  something  that  reminded  the 
worn  woman  of  the  world  of  her  vanished  spring,  came 
over  Mrs.  Mortimer,  as  the  girl's  young  lips  touched  her 
powdery  cheek. 

"  You  shall  come  to-morrow  evening,  then.  Wear  your 
plainest,  simplest  dress,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  look- 
ing despairingly  at  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  "  for  my  Thursdays  are 
very  informal.  Good-by — good-by,  Laura ;"  and  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer made  a  precipitate  retreat,  not  daring  even  to  look  at 
Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

This  latter  lady  had  a  long  talk  with  her  niece  after  Mrs. 
Mortimer  left  her,  and  found  her  apparently  intelligent  and 
bright,  sweet-tempered  and  overwhelmingly  obliging,  but 
of  a  very  determined  spirit. 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  walk  out  alone  in  New  York  un- 
til you  know  the  streets,  dear,"  said  she  to  her  niece. 

"  Oh,  aunt,  I  have  a  map  of  New  York,  and  I  know  just 
how  to  reach  the  Park,  and  I  ain't  afraid.  Why,  I  shot  a 
grizzly  out  at  Chadwick's,  and  I  must  walk  seven  miles  a 
day,  and  unless  I  have  some  pleasant  young  man  to  walk 
with,  I'd  rather  walk  alone  any  time." 

"Oh,  Rose,  I  couldn't  let  you  walk  with  a  young  man 
alone.  That  would  not  be  proper." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  would.  I  have  several  gentlemen  friends. 
There's  Jack  Townley.  He  was  out  shooting  buffaloes  last 
year  at  our  place,  and  he's  real  nice.  He  said  if  1  came  to 
New  York,  he  would  walk  with  me  every  day.  Father  let 
me  go  hunting  with  him." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  it  would  not  be  thought  proper  in 
New  York" 


6  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care,  so  I  know  that  I  am  doing  right,  what 
people  think." 

"  Then,  Rose,  I  am  afraid  you  will  never  succeed  in  New 
York." 

"  Then  I  can  go  back  to  Chadwick's.  I'm  only  going  to 
try  New  York  to  see  if  it  pleases  me.  I  don't  care  whether 
I  please  it  or  not." 

"  Rose,  when  you  went  hunting  '  grizzlies,'  as  you  call 
them,  you  had  a  particular  kind  of  rifle,  and  a  sort  of  dog 
not  afraid  of  bears,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Rose;  "you  have  to  be  very  particular 
when  you  go  after  a  grizzly." 

"  Well,  Rose,  when  you  are  to  bring  down  society,  you 
have  to  be  careful  of  your  ammunition.  Your  dress  and 
manners  are  the  powder  and  shot.  You  want  to  succeed 
in  society — you  want  to  bring  down  your  bear — don't  you  ?" 

Rose  looked  sideways  at  her  aunt  a  moment,  then  gave 
a  little  laugh. 

"You  are  pretty  smart,  ain't  you,  aunt?"  said  the  girl. 
"  You  mean  that  I've  got  to  tame  down  some  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  had  better  take  a  little  advice  from  an 
experienced  hunter,  Rose,  before  you  go  out  for  a  new  kind 
of  game." 

Rose  looked  down  at  her  brown  hands  and  at  her  swift 
feet  that  had  never  known  any  restraint  before. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  be  very  tame,"  said  she,  "  but  I 
will  try  to  do  what  you  tell  me  to." 

Mrs.  Trevylyan,  like  a  sagacious  woman,  determined  to 
let  Rose  alone,  and  left  her  wise  words  to  take  root  in  her 
mind.  She  amused  her  by  driving  about  the  city  until 
dinner,  and  after  that  meal  allowed  her  to  go  alone  to  her 
room  to  dress  for  Mrs.  Mortimer's  evening  reception. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  7 

"Now  if  you  need  help,  Rose,  let  Martha,  my  maid, 
come  in,  won't  you  ?"  said  her  aunt. 

"  What,  that  stiff  old  thing !  No.  I  couldn't  have  her 
round,"  said  Rose.  "  All  my  dresses  button  up  in  front, 
and  I  can  do  my  own  hair,  I  hope.  I  wish  you  would  come 
in  and  see  how  I  look.  I  guess  I'll  wear  my  brocade." 

"  Oh  no ;  something  simpler,"  suggested  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Well,  there's  my  green  silk,"  said  Rose. 

When  Mrs.  Trevylyan  went  in  at  nine  o'clock  to  see  to 
her  niece's  toilet  she  found  her  standing  before  the  glass, 
with  The  Enameller's  Assistant  open  before  her,  painting 
her  cheeks  in  great  daubs  of  red,  and  putting  powder  and 
chalk  on  in  heavy  patches. 

"  Oh,  Rose  !  Rose !  Rose !  what  are  you  doing  ?  Spoiling 
your  fine  clear  skin  by  putting  on  all  those  cosmetics? 
Rub  them  off  at  once.  I  shall  be  peremptory  here ;  I  will 
not  allow  you  to  make  a  wild  Indian  of  yourself." 

"But  I  have  read  that  New  York  ladies  always  paint 
when  they  go  to  parties,"  said  Rose,  dropping  her  brushes 
in  dismay. 

"  The  decent  ones  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  Wash 
your  face  instantly,  and  never  put  any  false  colors  upon  it. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  vulgar  thing  to  do,  even  if  you 
needed  it ;  and,  secondly,  you  do  not  need  it." 

Rose  looked  longingly  at  the  carefully  prepared  rouge 
saucer  which  she  had  supposed  was  the  veriest  grammar  of 
a  fashionable  toilet. 

Her  own  color  came  out  so  vividly,  however,  after  the 
cold  water  douche,  and  the  bit  of  anger  and  mortification, 
that  she  could  not  but  be  pleased. 

"  There  is  a  damask  rose,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  tapping 
the  cheek ;  and  carefully  taking  all  the  paints  and  powders, 


8  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

she  threw  them  into  the  wood  fire  which  blazed  upon  the 
hearth. 

"  Now  which  dress  ?" 

Lying  on  the  bed  was  a  blazing  brocade,  which  would 
have  done  for  Lady  Teazle,  but  which  was  terribly  inap- 
propriate to  a  young  girl,  and  a  bright  green  silk,  which 
was  trimmed  with  vivid  red  roses. 

"  Haven't  you  a  plain  black  silk  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Trevylyan, 
in  despair.  "  This  is  a  small  party,  and  these  dresses  look 
like  private  theatricals." 

"Yes,"  said  Rose,  disappointed;  "but  that  makes  me 
look  so  old." 

"  Well,  try  it,  and  come  down  to  me.  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  very  pretty  in  it." 

When  Rose  came  down,  she  had  been  crying,  and  it  was 
evident  that  she  was  not  quite  ready  for  the  black  silk. 
She  was  in  the  blazing  brocade,  and  looked  like  Millais's 
Vanessa.  Its  bright  colors  threw  out  her  brunette  com- 
plexion magnificently,  and  her  aunt  exclaimed,  imprudently : 

"Well,  you  are  a  handsome  creature,  and  don't  cry, 
dear.  We  will  get  you  some  simpler  dresses  later.  Let 
me  see  your  feet.  White  satin  slippers !  Oh,  darling  Rose, 
do  put  on  a  pair  of — Well,  no  matter;  black  satin  boots 
can  be  bought  to-morrow." 

The  brocade  was  miserably  cut,  and  made  in  a  fashion 
which  had  prevailed  several  seasons  ago.  It  did  its  best  to 
conceal  and  disfigure  the  pretty,  slender,  agile  figure  of  the 
Western  girl.  It  was  loaded  down  with  real  lace  fit  for  a 
duchess,  and  across  the  bosom  blazed  an  imitation  jewel  of 
green  and  red  glass. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  removed  this  ornament,  and  put  a  rose  in 
its  place. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  9 

\ 

"  You  must  wear  your  own  flower,  dear,"  said  she. 

Martha  stepped  in  with  a  warm  fur  cloak  for  the  young 
lady,  and  in  her  own  bonnet  and  shawl,  ready  to  accom- 
pany her. 

"Why,  you  ain't  going  to  the  party,  are  you?"  said 
Rose,  looking  at  Martha. 

"She  goes  to  take  care  of  you,  my  dear — to  wait  on 
you,  and  to  come  home  with  you.  She  will  sit  in  the 
dressing-room,  and  await  your  pleasure,"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
vvlyan. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  would  be  cold  comfort,"  said 
the  shooter  of  grizzlies. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  spared  the  last  blow.  Just  before 
stepping  into  Mrs.  Mortimer's  beautiful  parlor,  filled  with 
the  very  creme  de  la  creme  of  New  York  society,  Rose  drew 
on  a  pair  of  one-button  green  gloves  which  had  been  worn 
before. 


II. 

ROSE  CHADWICK  was  not  sorry  that  she  bad  taken  Mar- 
tha with  her  to  Mrs.  Mortimer's,  as  the  door  opened,  and  a 
flood  of  light  fell  upon  her  like  the  waves  which  tumble 
over  Niagara,  The  atmosphere  of  the  most  pronounced 
luxury  enveloped  her  for  the  first  time.  Servants  in  livery 
lined  the  great  hall,  and  flowers  in  almost  overwhelming 
profusion  hung  from  every  coign  of  vantage.  Music,  low 
and  delicious,  seemed  to  come  from  behind  a  group  of 
tropical  plants  which  stood  partly  under  the  stairway. 
Seven  or  eight  splendid  rooms  opened  out  of  the  great 
hall,  and  gentlemen  and  ladies,  who  looked  to  Rose  as  if 


10  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

they  were  figures  in  a  dream,  were  walking  up  and  down. 
It  overcame  the  Western  girl,  and  she  felt  a  little  dizzy  as 
she  essayed  the  grand  staircase. 

Martha,  an  accomplished  lady's-maid,  who  had  taken 
many  young  ladies  through  a  first  party,  was  watching  her 
narrowly  ;  she  took  off  her  fur  cloak  immediately,  saying, 
softly,  "  I'm  afraid  the  rooms  is  too  hot  for  you,  miss," 
and,  putting  a  kindly  arm  around  her,  led  her  up  the  stairs. 

It  was  what  Rose  Chadwick  had  been  sighing  for  in  her 
Western  wilds,  but,  when  it  came,  it  was  so  much  more 
than  she  had  expected  that  it  made  her  almost  faint. 

She  was  in  a  new  atmosphere,  and  something  like  the 
overwhelming  feeling  of  being  at  sea  caused  her  to  lose  for 
a  moment  the  cool  little  head  which  was  her  birthright. 

When  she  reached  the  dressing-room,  which  seemed 
miles  away,  Martha  placed  her  in  a  dressing-room  chair, 
whipped  out  a  smelling-bottle  from  one  of  her  capacious 
pockets,  and  gave  Rose  an  unexpected  whiff.  Martha  was 
an  old  soldier,  and  never  travelled  without  her  ammunition. 
Rose,  when  she  began  to  see  clearly,  was  conscious  of  a 
group  of  exquisite  white,  diaphanously  clad  girls,  who  stood 
chatting  by  the  open  wood  fire.  The  tallest  of  these,  a 
slender  creature  with  beautiful  golden  hair,  struck  Rose  as 
being  the  most  perfect  thing  she  had  ever  seen,  and  her 
woman's  instinct  teaching  her  to  observe  dress  and  its  de- 
tails, she  was  again  surprised  by  the  absence  of  any  orna- 
ment, and  yet  elegant  appearance  of  the  young  girl. 

As  she  looked  at  this  group,  she  glanced  down  at  the 
brocade  (made  at  Chadwick's  Falls),  and  her  heart  sank 
within  her.  She  seemed  to  be  all  of  a  piece  with  the  gor- 
geous Japanese  spread  which  lay  over  the  great  bed  near 
her.  For  a  moment  she  wished  herself  under  the  bed, 


A    TRANSPLANTED    HOSE.  11 

dead,  back  at  Chadwick's  Falls,  anywhere.  She  saw  that 
she  was  badly  dressed. 

By  this  time  the  gay  group  had  observed  her,  and  she 
noticed,  although  the  faithful  Martha  tried  to  interpose  her 
portly  person  between  them  and  the  young  girl,  that  they 
were  laughing  at  her;  she  even  heard  a  very  obtrusive, 
rather  stout,  short,  dark  girl  loudly  whisper :  "  Fanny,  I 
say,  what  a  guy  !  How  did  she  get  here  ?" 

"  For  shame,  Sidonie,"  said  the  tall  girl.  "  Whoever 
Mrs.  Mortimer  invites  is  sure  to  be  nice  ;  and  look  !  she  is 
ill,  I  fear." 

The  girl  called  Fanny,  the  tall  one  in  white,  who  seemed 
a  leader — as  indeed  she  was  —  moved  away  from  her 
friends,  and  approaching  Rose,  said,  kindly,  "  I  am  afraid 
you  are  faint;  you  look  pale.  Here,  Fifine,  open  one  of 
these  windows;  the  house  is  too  warm.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  ?"  And  she  extended  a  small  hand,  gloved 
in  a  tawny  Swedish  covering,  whose  loose  folds  stretched 
up  her  arm. 

Never  to  her  dying  day  will  Rose  forget  that  face,  that 
smile,  and  that  voice.  It  seemed  as  if  an  angel  bent  over 
her.  She  put  out  one  of  her  green  hands  affectionately 
and  spasmodically,  but  became  suddenly  conscious  of  that 
dreadful  glove,  and  drew  it  back  hastily. 

She  heard  again  Sidonie's  scornful  laugh.  This  gave 
her  courage ;  this  touched  the  right  nerve.  The  shooter 
of  the  grizzly  did  not  lack  an  independent  soul;  all  the 
absurd  little  mortifications  of  dress  fell  from  her  as  un- 
worthy thoughts  leave  the  spirit  when  it  is  aroused.  She 
started  to  her  feet  with  an  impulsiveness  which  had  grace 
and  gratitude  in  it.  She  said  :  "  Thank  you.  I  was  very 
faint,  I  believe,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  think  it 


12  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

was  the  perfume  of  some  flower,  but  this  fresh  air  has  re- 
vived me.     You  are  very  good." 

Although  these  words  fell  freighted  with  the  peculiar 
pronunciation  which  made  Rose's  best  friends  tremble,  they 
had  the  true  ring  in  them,  and  Fanny  felt  drawn  towards 
her  at  once.  It  was  an  aristocratic  sense,  too,  that  of 
smell,  and  all  the  girls  thought  better  of  Rose  for  being 
made  faint  by  a  flower. 

They  little  knew  how  sensitive  those  fine  nostrils  were 
— as  sensitive  as  those  of  a  deer  which  had  only  breathed 
the  pure  air  of  the  mountain  or  the  prairie. 

"  Somebody,  evidently,"  whispered  Sidonie ;  "  some 
Western  Governor's  daughter,  I  suppose;  but  what  a 
guy!" 

" Shall  we  go  down ?"  said  Fanny.  "I  see  you  are  a 
stranger  here.  Perhaps  you  will  join  our  group — " 

Rose  eagerly  accepted  this  kind  offer,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer 
was  relieved  and  pleased  to  see  the  young  Western  girl 
entering  her  beautiful  reception  -  room  with  Fanny  Grey, 
the  most  admired  belle  of  the  winter,  although  Fanny's 
quiet  elegance  made  the  toilet  of  poor  Rose  look  even 
more  alarmingly  dreadful  than  it  had  looked  before. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  that  invariable  accompaniment  of 
thorough  breeding,  the  air  always  of  a  hospitable  hostess. 
She  was  not  one  of  those  half-bred  and  vulgar  women,  of 
whom  New  York  can  occasionally  show  a  specimen,  who 
make  their  own  houses  the  fortress  from  which  they  sally 
forth  to  wound  and  to  disable.  Some  women  really  invite 
people  to  their  houses  to  make  themselves  of  consequence, 
and  to  try  thus  to  humiliate  their  guests.  But  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer was  too  well-born  and  well-bred  for  that.  Noblesse 
oblige  was  her  private  motto,  and  although  she  was  capable 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  13 

of  very  much  worldliness,  and  although  if  Rose  proved  not 
to  be  a  social  success  she  would  have  dropped  her  later  with 
no  particular  compunction,  she  was  altogether  too  much 
mistress  of  the  art  of  politeness  to  show  coldness  now. 

She  was  shocked  at  her  appearance,  she  abhorred  the 
brocade,  she  dreaded  ridicule,  and  thought  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan  ought  to  have  suppressed  the  green  gloves — there  is 
no  doubt  of  that. 

However,  her  very  handsome  face  beamed  with  smiles  as 
Rose  approached  her,  and  extending  both  her  hands,  she 
said,  audibly,  "  Ah,  rny  dear  little  Western  friend,  Miss 
Chadwick,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  were  sufficiently  rested 
to  come,  after  your  long,  long  journey  !  So  you  have  met 
Miss  Grey  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Fanny,  stopping  a  moment ;  "  pray  present 
me :  it  is  only  an  acquaintance  of  the  dressing-room." 

Mrs.  -Mortimer  introduced  all  the  group  to  Rose — even 
the  scornful,  dark  Sidonie,  who  could  not  have  brought  her 
nose  down,  because  Nature  had  turned  it  up,  and  who 
looked  at  Rose  with  a  mutilated  bow. 

Mrs.  Mortimer's  speech  had  been  intended  for  the  by- 
standers, all  of  whom  were  looking  at  Rose  with  that  queer, 
half-impertinent,  and  half-curious  look  with  which  a  group 
of  fashionable  New-Yorkers  who  know  each  other  are  apt 
to  greet  a  new-comer. 

Fanny  Grey  was  soon  borne  up  to  the  dancing-room  by 
a  small  but  ferocious  admirer,  who  looked  perfectly  invin- 
cible from  behind  a  red  mustache,  the  group  of  girls  faded 
away  as  if  by  magic,  and  new  girls  took  their  places. 
Guests  came  pouring  in,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  was  soon  en- 
grossed in  the  duty  of  receiving. 

For  half  an  hour  Rose  felt  as  she  had  never  felt  before 
2 


14  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

— that  she  was  out  of  place.  It  seemed  as  if  every  new 
arrival  was  but  another  stab,  as  women,  old  and  young, 
entered  and  looked  with  a  half-smile  at  her,  and  whispering 
to  one  another  walked  on.  Young  men  stared  at  her, 
nudged  one  another,  and  leisurely  turned  an  eyeglass  upon 
her.  Nothing  could  have  supported  her  had  not  once 
Fanny  Grey  passed  her,  on  the  arm  of  a  black  admirer, 
who  had  succeeded  to  the  red  one,  as  rouge  et  noir,  noir  et 
rouge,  turns  up  on  the  green  table ;  as  she  did  so,  she  gave 
Rose  a  little  smile  and  bow. 

"  She  is  the  only  good  one  here,"  thought  poor  Rose. 
"  I'll  go  back  to  Chadwick's  Falls  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  not  forgotten  her,  however.  She 
was  only  waiting  for  Arthur  Amberley,  a  well-bred  bache- 
lor of  forty,  who  was  so  sure  of  his  position  that  he  could 
talk  to  anybody,  however  badly  dressed,  and  who  was  so 
devoted  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Mortimer's  that  he  always  obeyed 
her. 

As  soon  as  he  arrived,  Mrs.  Mortimer  whispered  to  him, 
"  Do  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  niece,  a 
Western  heiress,  perfectly  crude,  you  know  ;  but  you  must 
take  her  through  the  rooms,  and  see,  for  me,  if  we  can  pol- 
ish her  into  shape." 

"  What !  the  brunette  with  the  fine  eyes,  standing  alone 
in  the  corner?"  asked  Arthur  Amberley,  without  seeming 
to  look. 

"  Yes,  in  the  dreadful  yellow  gown  and  green  gloves.  I 
want  that  creature  Jack  Long  to  be  impressed  with  the 
fact  that  she  is  somebody,  and  I  want  the  poor  thing  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

"I  am  your  slave,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  smiling; 
"but  on  what  subject  shall  we  converse?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  15 

"  Oh,  she  has  shot  a  grizzly  bear,  I  believe.  You  are 
one  of  the  hunting  and  buffalo  kind,  are  you  not  ?  Haven't 
you  been  out  on  the  prairies,  cattle-stealing  or  something  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  gravely,  "  you 
see  before  you  a  man  who  owns  ten  thousand  cattle  and 
a  Western  ranch.  I  am  astonished  at  your  ignorance  of 
the  favorite  pursuit  of  one  of  your  oldest  friends." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  I  know  that  you  love  the  shady  side 
of  Pall  Mall,  and  the  Union  Club  window,  better  than  any 
other  sport ;  but  come." 

Rose  saw  Mrs.  Mortimer  coming  towards  her  with  a  thin, 
dry,  rather  plain  man,  but  whose  air  and  manner  of  perfect 
simplicity  rather  reminded  her  in  its  way  of  Fanny  Grey. 

"  Miss  Chadwick,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Am- 
berley, a  mighty  hunter,  I  assure  you.  You  and  he  may 
find  something  in  common." 

"  I  find  nothing  common  about  Miss  Chadwick,"  said 
Arthur  Amberley,  shaking  hands  with  her  kindly,  and  pay- 
ing her  a  little  compliment  with  his  eyes.  "  Let  me  lead 
you  to  a  seat,  or  shall  we  take  a  walk  ?"  offering  his  arm. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  look  at  the  dancing,"  said  Rose, 
reassured  by  his  manner. 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  How  exactly 
you  interpreted  my  emotions,  Miss  Chadwick!  But  you 
must  not  expect  me  to  dance,  for  I  am  old  and  stiff.  How- 
ever, if  you  get  tired  of  me,  I  will  introduce  some  of  Eiy 
grandnephews  to  you,  who  will  be  but  too  happy  to  whirl 
you  in  the  waltz.  This  is  a  pretty  house,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  I  think  it  the  most  splendid  mansion  that  I  ever  saw. 
It  must  be  handsomer  than  the  White  House,  or  the 
Queen's  palace,"  said  Rose,  rolling  her  r's  fearfully. 

Arthur  Amberley  winced,  but  was  too  well-bred  to  show  it 


16  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  The  White  House  is  very  ugly,"  said  he ;  "  the 
Queen's  palaces,  particularly  Buckingham,  are  also  very 
ugly.  Our  best  American  houses  are  more  cheerful,  and 
altogether  better  to  live  in.  This  house  is  more  like  some 
of  the  modern  English  houses  in  London,  and  very  like  a 
French  house.  The  Parisian  salons  are  very  beautiful." 

"  I  expect  you  have  travelled  a  great  deal,"  said  Rose, 
looking  at  him  admiringly. 

"  Wandered  the  best  part  of  an  ill-spent  life,  Miss  Chad 
wick.  But  here  are  the  dancers." 

Rose  saw  before  her  a  beautiful  large  room,  in  white 
and  gold,  and  heard  the  strains  of  Lander's  Band  playing 
"  La  Siren,"  and  her  little  feet  went  tapping  on  the  floor. 

"Can  you  dance?"  said  Arthur  Amberley. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  learned  of  a  Frenchman  at  San  Francisco, 
where  pa  and  I  spent  a  winter,"  said  Rose. 

"  Then  you  shall,  a  little  later,"  said  Mr.  Amberley,  who 
was  touched  and  pleased  by  her  simplicity  and  her  rising 
color  and  her  youth.  "  Really  a  handsome  savage — a  real 
Pocahontas,"  said  Amberley  to  himself. 

He  talked  to  her  so  kindly,  told  her  who  people  were, 
explained  so  many  matters  that  seemed  strange  to  her,  that 
Rose  began  to  like  him  very  much,  and  not  to  regret  the 
lost  dance.  But  Amberley  was  planning  his  future  course, 
and  led  her  off  to  the  supper-room. 

"  What  will  you  have  ?"  he  asked. 

"  A  dish  of  the  ice-cream,"  said  Rose,  with  her  harshest 
emphasis  on  the  r. 

"  Oh  that  she  could  only  say, '  I'll  take  an  ice' !"  thought 
Amberley. 

However,  he  got  her  the  ice,  and  afterwards  talked  to 
little  Dicky  Smallwood,  who  was  horribly  impecunious,  and 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  17 

who  also  danced  divinely — two  things  very  apt  to  go  to- 
gether. 

"Dicky,  do  you  want  to  know  a  Western  heiress,  and  to 
dance  with  her?  She  dances  beautifully." 

"What,  that  horridly  dressed  girl?  No,  I  couldn't  be 
seen  with  her  on  the  floor.  I  am  sorry  to  disoblige  you, 
Amberley,  but  I  have  my  position  to  look  to,  and  I  am  en- 
gaged to  Sidonie  Devine — really  I  am." 

"Very  well,  I'll  give  her  to  Jack  Long,  then,"  said 
Amberley.  "  Long,  come  and  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Tre- 
vylyau's  niece,  a  great  Western  heiress,  and  a  very  pretty 
girl." 

"  Certainly,  in  a  minute,  Amberley,"  said  Jack  Long, 
who  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  courting  and  obliging  the 
all-powerful  club-man  Amberley. 

Dicky  Smallwood  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He 
was  jnst  mounting  the  ladder  of  fashion ;  his  hold  on  the 
rungs  was  very  slippery  ;  he  had  no  background ;  the  sneer 
of  one  leader  of  fashion  would  throw  him  back  into  the 
darkest  obscurity ;  but  if  Jack  Long  could  dance  with  the 
girl,  certainly  he  could ;  so  he  retired  and  looked  at  his 
card.  Sidonie  Devine's  dance  was  several  waltzes  off,  and 
she  always  snubbed  him  so  that  he  dreaded  the  annual  sac- 
rifice which  he  made  to  fashion  in  compelling  himself,  for 
the  honor  of  being  seen  with  her,  to  endure  for  a  half-hour 
the  most  contemptuous  treatment.  He  looked  at  Rose, 
who  was  bowing  to  and  smiling  at  Jack  Long,  and  saw 
that  she  was  very,  very  pretty. 

"  I  think,  Amberley,"  said  the  poor  little  snob,  slowly 
approaching  the  table,  where  two  or  three  gentlemen  were 
discussing  Mrs.  Mortimer's  delicious  terrapin  and  old  Ma- 
deira— "  I  think  I  have  a  dance  left.  Would  you  recon* 


18  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

sider,  and  introduce  me  to  Miss  Chadwick — I  believe  you 
called  her?" 

"  Not  now,  Dicky.  She  is  off  with  Jack  Long.  She  is 
a  great  catch,  you  know,  and  he  will  not  be  apt  to  resign 
her.  Perhaps  later  on  you  mighj;  get  a  dance." 

So  while  Rose  went  off  to  dance,  Dicky  spread  the  re- 
port that  she  was  a  well-born  heiress,  and  the  niece  of  Mrs. 
Trevylyan.  Arthur  Arnberley  laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  the  lit- 
tle man  rushed  in  after  the  waltz  to  get  her  name  on  his  card. 

For  one  thing  was  a  success,  and  that  was  the  dancing 
of  Miss  Chadwick.  The  Frenchman  had  done  his  duty, 
and  the  graceful,  youthful  figure,  disguised  in  the  yellow 
brocade,  and  lighted  up  by  the  green  gloves,  went  round  in 
Jack  Long's  firm  embrace  with  the  most  perfect  and  quiet 
elegance.  She  was  a  natural  dancer;  she  delighted  her 
partners,  as  one  after  the  other  solicited  the  honor. 

Arthur  Amberley  sauntered  back  to  his  hostess  to  get  his 
reward  of  a  chat  with  her,  for  he  privately  adored  Mrs. 
Mortimer. 

"  Your  debutante  will  do,"  said  he,  "  for  she  can  dance 
well." 


III. 

THE  next  morning,  as  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  taking  her 
late  breakfast  in  her  sunny  little  sitting-room,  which  was 
fitted  up  for  her  invalid  needs,  she  sent  Martha  for  Miss 
Chadwick,  anticipating  an  account  of  the  party  at  Mrs. 
Mortimer's  with  some  curiosity. 

"She  sleeps  late,  poor  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  think- 
ing over  the  mortifications  she  had  probably  endured. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  19 

Martha  came  down  in  a  few  moments,  pale  and  trem- 
bling. 

"  She's  gone,  ma'am !"  said  the  careful  and  prudent 
Martha. 

"Gone!     Where?" 

A  conversation  with  Rourke,  the  waiter,  revealed  the 
dreadful  fact  that  the  front-door  had  been  found  unbarred 
when  he  descended  to  open  it,  and,  as  Miss  Chadwick's 
street  dress  and  bonnet  were  gone,  it  was  but  too  probable 
that  she  had  departed  for  the  seven-mile  tramp  of  which 
she  had  spoken. 

"  She's  a  wild  one,  mum,"  said  Martha.  "  I'm  thinking 
you'll  have  trouble,  mum." 

"  Lost  in  New  York  by  this  time  !"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan, 
wringing  her  pale  hands.  "  Tell  me  all  about  last  evening, 
Martha.  And — here — send  a  note  to  Mrs.  Mortimer." 

She  wrote  a  few  hurried  words  to  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and 
while  debating  as  to  whether  she  should  send  for  the  po- 
lice and  put  them  on  the  track  of  Rose,  she  listened  to 
Martha's  story  of  the  evening  before. 

"  She  cried  in  the  carriage  as  we  was  a-coming  home, 
mum,  and  I  guess  she  saw  she  didn't  look  just  like  Miss 
Fanny  Grey  and  them  other  young  ladies,  mum,"  wound 
up  Martha. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  she  was  back  at  Chadwick's  Falls  !"  sighed 
Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  came  in  an  hour,  and  recommended  peace 
and  patience. 

"She  was  dreadful,  Laura,  absolutely  dreadful,  in  that 
brocade  and  those  green  gloves ;  you  ought  to  have  -sup- 
pressed those,  Laura.  But  she  has  produced  an  impression. 
Do  you  know  she  dances  beautifully?  And  Jack  Long 


20  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

and  Dicky  Smallwood  are  telling  everybody  about  her ;  but 
you  should  have  heard  Sidonie  Devine  go  on  about  her 
clothes  and  her  pronunciation !  I  believe  she  drew  a  cari- 
cature of  her  on  her  dancing  card.  Fanny  Grey,  that  dear 
thing,  was  very  good  to  her ;  but  then,  you  know,  she  is 
good  to  everybody,  and  we  must  not  count  on  many  such 
girls  as  Fanny  Grey.  Sidonie  Devine  will  persecute  her 
nearly  to  death.  However,  Amberley  says  she  has  sense 
and  charm,  if  we  can  only  get  at  them.  She  must  be  put 
with  a  class  of  girls  at  Professor  Paton's  immediately  to 
correct  her  speech." 

"  But  where  is  she  now  ?  I  ain  afraid — oh  !  I  don't 
know  where  to  look  for  her — she  has  wandered  off !" 

Mrs.  Mortimer  laughed.  "  Why  did  not  your  brother 
send  you  a  '  grizzly '  at  once  ?" 

"  Oh,  Sophia !  I  don't  think  I  can  stand  it !  I  shall 
send  her  back  to-morrow." 

"  She  will  come  back  all  right,  do  not  fear,  Laura ;  that 
girl  could  take  care  of  herself  in  Paris.  I  was  struck  with 
a  certain  native  dignity  and  poise  about  her  as  she  stood 
in  my  parlor  and  was  snubbed  last  evening ;  her  lip  curled 
and  her  eye  flashed,  and  I  saw  that  there  was  character  and 
courage  and  force  in  her.  One  thing  is  certain,  the  girl 
has  got  to  see  for  herself  that  she  is  in  the  wrong,  and  then 
we  can  perhaps  teach  her  something." 

Poor  Mrs.  Trevylyan  ordered  her  coupe,  and  started  for 
the  Park  as  one  would  look  for  a  needle  in  a  haymow. 

But  in  all  the  groups  there  was  no  Rose,  and  after  a  drive 
of  two  hours  Mrs.  Trevylyan  returned  in  despair. 

Rourke  was  not  allowed  to  open  the  door  for  his  mis- 
tress, but  Rose  threw  it  open,  and  ran  down  the  steps  to 
help  her  aunt  herself. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  21 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !"  said  she.  "  But  you  see  I  felt  very 
low  down  in  ray  mind,  and  I  got  up  early  to  take  a  long 
walk,  and  thought  I  would  go  and  see  the  Brooklyn  Bridge. 
We  have  heard  of  that  out  at  Chadwick's  Falls,  and  I've 
been  over  it.  First  they  said  I  couldn't,  but  I  told  them  I 
would,  so  they  laughed  and  let  me,  and  then  I  walked  round 
Brooklyn  (oh,  a  real  nice  place !  all  trees  and  flowers  and 
gardens — I  like  it  better  than  New  York),  and  then  I  came 
home,  and  I'm  sorry  you  were  uneasy." 

"But  were  you  not  frightened,  and  did  you  not  lose 
your  way  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Father  always  has  told  me  to  re- 
member that  I  had  an  English  tongue  in  my  head,  and  that 
I  could  ask  my  way  of  a  policeman  when  I  was  in  San  Fran- 
cisco or  St.  Louis.  Out  on  the  prairie  you  have  to  find  your 
way  without  a  policeman.  Then  I  had  some  money  in  my 
pocket,  and,  if  I  had  lost  my  way,  I  could  have  hired  a  car- 
riage to  bring  me  home." 

"  But,  Rose,  there  are  other  considerations.  You  know 
what  I  told  you  about  going  out  alone.  You  are  too  young, 
and — too  pretty." 

"  Nobody  seemed  to  think  so,  Aunt  Laura.  Nobody 
looked  at  me,  and  nobody  spoke  to  me.  I  reckon  I  ain't 
so  handsome  as  you  think."  And  Rose  continued :  "You 
see  you're  so  good  yourself  that  you  think  everybody  else 
is  just  like  you ;"  and  the  irrepressible  Rose  threw  her 
arms  about  her  aunt's  neck. 

What  to  do  with  such  a  creature  ?  how  to  put  suspicion 
into  this  pure  mind  ?  how  to  make  her  self-conscious,  pru- 
dent, and  conventional  ? — it  almost  dazed  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Well,  Rose,"  said  her  aunt,  "  I  throw  myself  on  your 
generosity.  You  see  I  am  an  invalid,  consequently  ner- 


22  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

TOUS;  you  see  I  am  easily  frightened.  Promise  me  here- 
after that  you  will  not  go  out  without  speaking  to  me  first. 
Won't  you  promise  me  that,  dear  ?" 

"  Well,  aunt,  I'll  try ;  but  I  can't  promise,  for  I  never 
asked  anybody's  permission  to  go  out  in  my  life.  I  might 
break  my  word,  you  know,  and  forget  sometimes ;  and  that 
is  worse  than  going  out  alone,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  remember,  7  expect  it  of  you.  Now  tell  me 
about  last  evening.  Did  you  enjoy  it?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  it's  the  most  elegant  place  I  ever  saw  in  all 
my  life — real  handsome — and  Mrs.  Mortimer  is  a  splendid 
lady.  I  had  an  extra  fine  dance  too.  There's  a  Mr.  Long, 
who  is  coming  to  see  me  to-day." 

"  Oh,  you  asked  him  to  call,  did  you  ?" 

"  No ;  he  asked  me  if  he  might  come ;  he  said  his  moth- 
er knew  you." 

"  That  was  all  right,  Rose." 

"  And  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  Jack  Townley,  and  he 
said  he  did  ;  and  I  asked  him  to  ask  Jack  Townley  to  come 
and  see  me,  and  I  wrote  him  a  letter  myself  this  morning, 
telling  him  to  come  and  see  me." 

"  That  was  very  wrong,  Rose.  You  should  have  asked 
me  to  write  that  letter  and  send  the  invitation  to  Mr. 
Townley." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  why,  for  I  know  him,  and  you  don't, 
Aunt  Laura." 

"  Because,  as  I  told  you,  young  ladies  do  not  ask  young 
gentlemen  to  come  and  see  them;  their  mothers  or  their 
chaperons  do  it  for  them." 

"Well,  I  never  had  a  mother  since  I  can  remember," 
said  poor  Rose. 

"I  will  make  it 'all  right;  I  will  ask  your  friends  to 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  23 

come  and  dine  with  you  here  a  little  later,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan.  "  Now  tell  me  about  the  young  ladies  you 
met  last  evening." 

"  There  was  one  girl  who  was  real  good  to  me  ;  the 
others  seemed  to  be  proud,"  said  Rose. 

"  You  mean  that  they  were  not  polite  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  do.  Proud  and  haughty,  and  not  at  all 
sociable,"  said  Rose,  who  would  have  been  tortured  like  an 
Indian  at  the  stake  before  she  would  have  confessed  that 
she  felt  herself  badly  dressed,  and  that  she  had  been  mor- 
tified before  these  ill-mannered  people.  "  I  liked  a  girl 
named  Grey,"  she  continued. 

"  Yes,  one  of  the  most  admired  girls  in  New  York," 
said  Mrs.  Trevylyan — "  very  good  manners.  But  let  me 
correct  your  phraseology,  dear  Rose.  '  Proud '  does  not 
mean  '  ill-mannered.'  Proud  people  behave  well.  Pride 
is  a  noble  quality." 

"Yes,  but  there  are  several  kinds  of  pride,"  said  Rose, 
her  cheeks  flushing  as  she  remembered  Sidonie  Devine's 
sneer.  "  There  was  a  nice  old  gentleman  named  Mr.  Ain- 
berley ;  he  wasn't  a  bit  proud." 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  laughed.  "  Arthur  Amberley  is  not  old, 
Rose,  and  he  is  the  proudest  man  in  New  York.  He  has 
reason  to  be.  He  is  of  an  honorable  old  family ;  he  is  a 
gentleman  of  the  best  breeding ;  his  position  is  of  the  high- 
est. You  were  fortunate,  in  your  first  evening  out,  to  meet 
him,  Rose,  for  you  will  not  meet  a  better-bred  man." 

"He  made  me  feel  very  comfortable,  and  he  gave  me 
some  supper,  and  he  told  me  who  people  were,  and  he  in- 
troduced some  paitners  to  me,"  added  Rose,  gratefully — 
this  last  good  deed  had  filled  her  cup,  evidently — "  but  I 
do  think  he  is  old." 


24  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Well,  do  not  say  so,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  He  said  he  would  introduce  his  grandsons  or  his  grand- 
nephews  to  me." 

"  That  was  his  badinage.  Arthur  Amberley  is  just  the 
age  for  a  successful  and  a  courted  man  of  society,"  said 
Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

Rose  looked  as  if  this  subject  was  getting  tedious. 

"  By-the-way,  Rose,  I  want  to  give  you  a  pretty  white 
dress  and  some  gloves  and  boots.  Suppose  we  go  out 
after  a  while  and  order  them  ?" 

So,  without  opening  the  mounds  of  Chadwick's  Falls 
millinery  again,  the  question  of  toilet  began  to  be  satis- 
factorily answered ;  and  when  Martha  went  up  to  attend 
to  Miss  Chadwick's  wants  for  the  evening,  she  found  that 
the  brocade  and  the  green  gloves  had  been  folded  away  in 
the  depths  of  a  trunk. 

Fanny  Grey  called  in  a  few  days,  and  asked  Rose  to  join 
a  sewing  class,  to  luncheon,  and  to  come  to  the  Roller- 
skating  Rink. 

There  are  in  society,  as  in  the  greater,  wider  world  of 
tragedy,  and  poetry,  and  human  experience,  two  forces  al- 
ways at  work — the  dark  and  the  light,  the  good  and  the 
bad — Michael,  the  archangel,  and  Lucifer,  prince  of  the 
powers  of  darkness.  It  is  perhaps  somewhat  absurd  to 
compare  the  petty  jealousies  of  the  salon  with  these  mighty 
powers,  whom  the  poets  Goethe  and  Milton  describe  as 
dividing  the  world  between  them.  But  they  fight  out  the 
same  great  battle  in  every  parlor,  in  every  ballroom.  Our 
little  girl,  Rose  Chad  wick,  is  fated  to  be  torn  by  these  con- 
tending forces.  Good  and  evil,  malice  and  kindness,  will 
pull  her  this  way  and  that.  The  drama  of  to-day  is  ex- 
actly like  that  of  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  if  the  agents 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  25 

seem  less  dignified  than  Goethe's  Mephistopheles  or  Mil- 
ton's angels,  their  power  over  the  happiness  and  the  misery 
of  a  human  being  is  the  same. 

Sidonie  Devine  also  called,  and  so  did  Jack  Long  and 
Dicky  Smallwood.  Rose  was  not  at  her  ease  with  any  of 
these  people.  She  had  as  yet  no  experiences  in  common 
with  them ;  a  chat  in  the  drawing-room  revealed  to  her 
more  than  ever  how  far  away  she  was  from  their  world, 
how  much  they  must  look  down  upon  her.  She  began 
even  to  listen  to  her  own  voice,  and  to  find  it  flat  and  dis- 
cordant. She  longed  for  the  arrival  of  Jack  Townley — he 
who  had  been  so  agreeable  out  on  the  plains,  he  who  had 
lived  so  long  at  her  father's  generous  table,  he  who  had 
been 'so  pleasant,  and  who  had  promised  her  that  he  would 
come  and  see  her  when  she  came  to  New  York,  and  would 
take  her  for  drives  and  for  horseback.  Where  was  he? 
There  was  one  subject  on  which  she  could  talk  with  these 
new  friends  of  hers,  and  that  was  a  horse.  Rose  knew  all 
about  that  noble  animal,  and  was  a  fearless  cross-country 
rider.  She  was  overjoyed  when  Jack  Long  suggested  that 
she  should  join  the  Galaxy  Hunt,  and  she  sighed  to  think 
that  her  own  beautiful  blooded  horse,  Fountain,  was  at 
Chadwick's  Falls.  She  knew  that  there  was  nothing  like 
him  in  all  New  York. 

Her  idea  of  a  riding-dress  was,  however,  to  put  a  long 
skirt  over  her  usual  dress,  to  tie  an  old  hat  over  her  ears 
with  a  handkerchief ;  and  in  that  guise  she  came  down  to 
take  her  first  ride  with  the  fastidious  Jack  Long. 

He  declared  himself  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  had  to  give 
up  the  ride  that  day.  It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
Rose.  Jack  Long  wrote  a  note  to  Mrs.  Mortimer  that  eveu- 
insf. 


26  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

In  a  week  Rose  found  herself,  she  scarcely  knew  how, 
in  a  London  cloth  habit,  with  very  short  skirt ;  a  little  pair 
of  boots  showed  beneath  the  skirt ;  and,  if  truth  must  be 
told,  a  very  well  fitting  pair  of  cloth  pantaloons  and  a 
man's  shirt  were  under  the  habit ;  a  low-crowned  Derby, 
fitting  her  small  head  to  perfection,  crowned  this  garb, 
and  Jack  Long,  with  his  groom,  and  a  horse  for  Rose,  were 
waiting  outside. 


IV. 

ROSE  made  a  success  at  the  Galaxy  Hunt,  and  cleared 
fences  to  admiration.  The  discovery  of  her  passion  for 
riding,  and  her  grace  in  the  field,  gave  her  ten  or  twelve 
counts  more  in  her  favor.  Her  figure  in  that  well-fitting 
habit  was  discovered  to  be  very  neat,  and  her  complexion 
was  brilliant  when  other  people  became  blowzy. 

Sidonie  Devine  was  furious.  This  thing  could  not  go 
on  forever;  there  must  be  a  block  interposed.  Jack  Long 
was  evidently  becoming  somewhat  interested  in  this  Poca- 
hontas,  and  there  were  still  three  weeks  left  of  the  hunting 
season. 

Fanny  Grey's  lunch  afforded  Sidonie  an  opportunity. 
Rose  had  the  drawback  common  even  to  courageous  natures 
— she  always  appeared  at  her  worst  when  she  was  conscious 
of  being  watched.  At  her  aunt's  quiet  table,  served  as  it 
was  by  the  accomplished  Rourke,  who  would  have  been 
burned  at  the  stake  before  he  would  have  noticed  that  any 
guest  of  his  mistress  committed  a  solecism,  she  had  passed 
muster  well  enough  as  to  her  table  manners,  particularly 
as  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  extremely  short-sighted,  and  was  so 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  27 

little  on  the  lookout  for  faults  of  which  she  had  no  con- 
ception herself  that  Rose  did  not  draw  attention  to  her 
sins  of  omission  and  commission. 

Finding  at  Fanny  Grey's  luncheon  eleven  girls  besides 
herself,  Sidonie  being  one  of  them,  a  certain  unpleasant 
feeling  in  the  air  struck  her  as  she  entered.  Not  all 
Fanny's  cordiality  could  remove  it  from  her.  They  were 
evidently  talking  of  her,  she  thought,  as  she  entered.  The 
first  thing  which  struck  her  as  she  sat  down  at  table  was 
the  beauty  and  profusion  of  the  flowers,  and  the  luxury  of 
everything.  She  supposed  that  she  was  going  round  to  eat 
a  chop  or  a  beefsteak  with  her  friend,  and  she  found  her- 
self at  a  superb  banquet.  In  front  of  her  was  what  she 
supposed  to  be  a  plate  of  oysters,  but  on  tasting  one — 
which  she  put  into  her  mouth  with  her  knife  (a  silver 
knife,  and  the  only  implement  she  discovered  near  her,  not 
noticing  a  small  silver  fork  which  was  partly  hidden  under 
her  plate) — this  proved  to  be  not  an  oyster,  but  a  clam, 
which  was  decidedly  disagreeable  to  her,  and  she  returned 
it  to  her  plate.  She  then  had  what  she  supposed  was  a 
cup  of  tea  before  her,  and,  tasting  it  rather  hastily,  it 
proved  to  be  a  cup  of  hot  bouillon,  the  shock  of  which 
caused  her  to  choke,  and  she  grew  red  and  mortified  over 
that. 

Sidonie  was  watching  her  like  a  lynx,  and  at  every  faux 
pas  of  poor  Rose  the  sneer  grew  more  apparent.  She  was 
nudging  her  next  neighbor,  a  little  pink-eyed  girl,  who  was 
in  fits  of  laughter  over  some  transparently  foolish  story, 
but  who  really  was  responding  to  Sidonie's  scarcely  con- 
cealed ridicule  of  Rose. 

Fanny  Grey  was  busy  at  her  end  of  the  table  with  some 
strangers,  and  did  not  notice  the  discomfiture  of  poor  Rose 


28  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSB. 

until  the  second  or  third  course.  When  she  looked  at  her 
she  saw  that  she  was  about  to  burst  into  tears. 

"  Miss  Chadwick,  you  are  eating  nothing,"  said  she, 
kindly ;  "  let  me  recommend  this  filet,"  and  she  sent  the 
waiter  to  her. 

Presently  poor  Rose,  as  if  inspired  by  the  genius  of 
blundering,  and  not  knowing  that  one  does  not  ask  the 
hostess  for  anything,  called  out,  "  Miss  Grey,  I  will  thank 
you  for  some  of  the  gravy." 

Poor  Fanny  !  with  all  her  good-breeding,  she  was  almost 
unnerved  by  this  sudden  attack;  and  as  for  gravy,  it  was 
not  near  her,  nor  did  she  know  if  there  was  such  a  thing 
with  the  filet.  She  had  still  composure  enough  to  sum- 
mon the  tittering  waiter,  and  to  tell  him  to  hand  the  dish 
again  to  Miss  Chadwick,  when  poor  Rose,  seeing  Sidonic 
stuff  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth,  scraped  up  a  few 
undesirable  peas,  and  took  a  very  small  spoonful  of  gravy. 
She,  however,  ate  it  with  the  sublime  composure  of  a  mar- 
tyr, and  tried  to  talk  to  her  next  neighbor — a  very  quiet 
little  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  of  no  particular  party,  either 
for  her  or  against  her.  When  the  salads  came,  Rose  had 
sunk  into  obscurity ;  the  talk  was  loud  and  fast  over  some 
coming  private  theatricals,  and  even  Sidonie  had  ceased  to 
observe  her,  when  she  made  another  faux  pas. 

On  tasting  her  salad,  it  seemed  very  flat  and  oily,  and 
she  thought  how  good  it  would  be  if  she  only  had  some 
vinegar.  So  she  called  out  to  a  passing  waiter,  in  a  clear, 
high  note,  "  I'll  thank  you  for  some  vinegar." 

If  she  had  asked  for  blood,  the  man  could  not  have 
looked  more  astonished.  He  retreated  to  the  closet,  and  a 
pause  fell  upon  the  conversation;  there  was  much  hurry- 
ing and  scurrying  backward  and  forward,  and  at  last  the 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  29 

servant  approached  her,  and  whispered,  "  I  am  sorry,  miss, 
but  the  cook  has  used  up  all  the  vinegar." 

By  this  time  her  cup  was  full,  and  she  ate  and  drank 
blindly,  without  taste  or  sense.  When  her  finger-bowl 
was  put  before  her,  she  observed  some  geranium  leaves 
and  violets  floating  in  the  water,  and,  instead  of  rubbing 
them  through  her  fingers  to  give  them  a  fragrance,  she 
took  them  out  and  made  a  small  bouquet  to  put  in  her 
dress,  not  noticing  the  beautiful  bunch  of  flowers  which 
was  awaiting  her  acceptance  for  that  purpose.  She  dis- 
covered her  mistake  just  too  late,  and  then  concluded  that, 
whatever  her  impulses  had  been,  they  had  all  been  wrong. 
Conventional  table  manners  were  still  a  long  way  off. 

Sidonie  had  noted  every  one  of  her  mistakes,  and  made 
a  story  out  of  them,  which  is  still  a  part  of  her  stock  in 
trade. 

She  had  blushed  until  her  face  was  hot  and  feverish. 
She  had  suffered  that  keen  sense  of  shame  which  had  be- 
gun at  Mrs.  Mortimer's  when  she  first  saw  herself  in  the 
cheval-glass  from  head  to  foot,  contrasted  with  other  girls 
of  her  age,  and  which  had  once  or  twice  since  overcome 
her. 

The  thought  of  Chadwick's  Falls,  of  her  dear,  indulgent 
father ;  of  Fountain,  brave  and  fleet ;  of  that  life  of  open 
air  and  freedom — came  to  her  as  she  rose  from  the  table, 
and  she  threw  out  her  hand  as  if  to  catch  the  bridle-rein 
of  her  favorite  horse  to  gallop  away  into  boundless  space. 
As  she  did  so  she  knocked  over  a  beautiful  ruby  glass  de- 
canter, breaking  a  hole  in  its  side,  from  which  the  red 
claret  flowed  over  the  white  damask. 

That  was  the  last  straw,  and  she  sank  into  her  chair  in 
a  flood  of  tears,  saying,  "  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !" 

3 


30  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Fanny  Grey  was  by  her  side  at  once,  having  driven  all 
her  other  guests  into  the  parlor,  excepting  the  quiet  girl 
who  had  sat  next  to  Rose. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Chadwick,  it  is  of  not  the  slightest  con- 
sequence. Only  think,  I  upset  my  claret  at  the  beginning 
of  a  dinner  the  other  evening,  and  had  to  look  at  the 
blood-red  stain  throughout  the  whole  dinner.  Now  you 
have  only  done  the  same  thing  at  the  end." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that  alone  !"  sighed  poor  Rose.  "  But  I'll 
pay  for  it.  I'll  buy  you  another  one ;  I'll  get  you  another 
decanter." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Fanny  Grey,  who  could  hardly 
i-epress  a  smile. 

•    "Leave  her  with  me,"  said  the  quiet  girl  to  Fanny,  as 
Rose  burst  into  a  fresh  flood  of  tears. 

It  seemed  to  Rose  as  if  that  desired  privilege  of  weeping 
bitterly,  with  this  quiet  girl  looking  at  her,  carried  off  half 
her  mortification. 

"  You  think  too  much  of  your  mistakes,"  said  the  girl, 
after  a  few  minutes. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  so  awkward !"  said  poor  Rose. 

"  No  matter ;  there  are  worse  things,"  said  the  girl. 

"  I  can  pay  for  the  glass,"  said  Rose. 

"No;  you  must  not  offer  to  do  that,"  said  her  friend. 
"  That  is  not  permitted  in  society." 

"  Another  mistake  ?" 

"  Yes ;  this  is  the  worst  one,"  said  the  quiet  girl.  "  You 
can  send  Fanny  a  basket  of  flowers,  or  a  fan,  or  something, 
but  never  offer  to  pay  for  what  you  break." 

"  I  once  read  a  novel,  Who  Breaks,  Pays,"  said  poor  Rose. 

"That  is  true  morally,  but  not  in  the  matter  of  a  glass 
knocked  over  at  a  dinner." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  31 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  said  Rose,  looking  her  neighbor 
fall  in  the  face. 

"  Harriet  Araberley,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  Mr.  Arthur  Amberley?"  said 
Rose,  brightening  all  over. 

"  My  brother." 

"  You  are  kind,  just  like  him,"  said  Rose. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  hope  I  have  decent  manners,"  said 
Harriet  Amberley,  looking  at  the  vacant  seat  of  Sidonie. 
"  I  saw  that  those  girls  were  trying  to  ridicule  you,  and 
that  it  confused  you.  My  brother  spoke  to  me  of  you. 
He  met  you  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's,  and  he  admired  you ;  he 
said  you  were  fresh,  like  the  prairies ;"  and  a  charming 
smile  illuminated  Harriet  Amberley's  plain  face. 

"  He  was  very  good  to  me,"  said  Rose. 

"  I  think  he  had  his  reward,"  said  Harriet,  pleasantly. 
"Now  shall  we  go  up  to  Fanny's  dressing  -  room  ?  The 
servants  are  waiting  to  clear  the  table." 

"How  shall  I  learn  all  the  etiquette  of  the  table?" 
asked  Rose  of  Harriet,  after  she  had  washed  her  eyes  and 
smoothed  her  hair. 

"  By  observation,  and  ask  me  any  questions ;  I  shall  be 
glad  to  tell  you.  In  the  first  place,  never  put  your  knife 
in  your  mouth.  Secondly,  find  out  what  you  have  before 
you,  and  do  not  be  in  a  hurry  ;  take  your  spoon,  and  quietly 
test  the  heat  of  your  bouillon.  Then,  with  your  fork  in 
your  right  hand,  try  whatever  you  have  on  your  plate. 
Never  ask  your  hostess  for  anything ;  ask  the  waiter." 

"  Why  was  there  such  a  fuss  about  the  vinegar  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  a  condiment  little  used,  and  the  salads 
are  supposed  to  be  dressed.  It  was  the  waiter's  fault, 
however,  that  there  was  none  in  the  caster." 


32  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Why  did  they  laugh  when  I  fished  out  the  flowers 
from  that  bowl?" 

"Because  that  was  put  before  you  to  wash  your  fingers 
in,  and  the  flowers  were  simply  to  perfume  the  water." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Rose.  "  I  don't  think 
I  should  mind  asking  you  questions." 

"  And  I  shall  like  to  answer  them,"  said  Harriet. 

They  went  down  stairs,  to  find  the  party  augmented  by 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Amberley,  Mr.  Long,  Mr.  Smallwood, 
and  several  other  gentlemen.  Private  theatricals  were  on 
the  tapis,  and  Fanny  Grey  had  given  her  luncheon  as  a 
preparatory  step  to  the  choosing  of  characters  and  the  gen- 
eral beginning  of  the  rehearsals. 

Mr.  Amberley  was  unanimously  chosen  stage-manager, 
and  the  usual  contest  began  as  to  what  plays  would  be  at 
once  easy,  becoming,  interesting,  and  remunerative  to  the 
charity  to  which  they  were  to  be  devoted. 

"  You  might  as  well  boil  it  all  down,  and  say,  '  What 
will  be  possible? '  "  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  Private  theat- 
ricals are  always  poor ;  amateurs  play  very  badly,  and  you 
must  get  a  play  which  will  play  itself.  Depend  upon  your 
costumes,  and  the  gay  and  often  changing  incidents  of  the 
play  ;  but  do  not  depend  upon  your  own  powers  as  actors." 

"  Well,  really,  Mr.  Amberley,  you  are  very  encouraging," 
said  Sidonie. 

"  I  am  not  ambitious  of  my  office,  Miss  Devine.  You 
may  have  it,"  said  Amberley. 

"  No,  thanks.  I  intend  to  have  all  the  fun,  and  none  of 
the  trouble,"  said  Sidonie. 

"  Cast  Miss  Devine  for  a  saucy  chamber-maid,"  said  Ar- 
thur Amberley,  making  a  note  on  the  margin  of  a  play- 
book. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  33 

There  was  much  gay  talk,  which  amused  Rose  beyond 
measure.  Fanny  Grey  and  Jack  Long  were  to  be  the  hero 
and  heroine,  and  Dick  Smallwood  and  Miss  Devine  were  to 
be  a  pair  of  ill-matched  young  married  people;  Harriet 
Amberley  was  to  be  a  maiden  aunt,  and  Mr.  Amberley  pre- 
sented her,  Rose,  with  the  character  of  a  governess. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  play,"  said  Rose. 

"  But  neither  do  any  of  these  people,  Miss  Chadwick," 
said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  You  are  in  the  fashionable  ma- 
jority. I  have  got  six  weeks  of  unhappiness  before  me, 
and  I  shall  hire  a  professional  to  coach  you  all.  You  may 
be  an  undeveloped  Siddons — who  knows?  Take  the  part, 
I  entreat  you." 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  kind  and  agreeable 
behind  his  voice  as  he  said  these  words.  His  dry  wit  and 
sarcastic  manner  hid  a  good  heart.  Of  this  Rose  was  cer- 
tain. 

"  Take  the  part,"  whispered  Harriet 


V. 

THIS  business  of  the  private  theatricals  made  it  easy  for 
Mrs.  Trevylyan  to  propose  to  Rose  the  propriety  of  study- 
ing elocution.  She  could  see  no  other  way  in  which  to 
attack  those  vices  of  pronunciation  which  were  so  in  the 
way  of  any  success,  either  social  or  intellectual.  For  al- 
though no  city  and  no  state  is  without  its  local  rusticity  in 
the  way  of  accent  —  although  Boston  people  have  their 
twang,  and  although  New-Yorkers  say  "  byerd "  for  bird, 
and  "pote"  for  poet,  and  "Fifthavnu"  for  Fifth  Avenue, 


34  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBE. 

and  the  Philadelphians  talk  about  "cyanes"  and  "cyars," 
and  call  their  respected  progenitors  "  payh  "  and  "  mayh," 
yet  there  is  a  worse  fault  than  all  these,  and  that  is  the 
adding  of  an  "r"  to  every  word  ending  in  "a,"  and  also 
giving  "r"  an  unnecessary  agency  in  "scorn,"  such  as  say- 
ing "  scourne."  All  this,  which  we  indefinitely  and  per- 
haps improperly  call  Western  pronunciation,  Rose  had  to 
a  terrible  degree.  She  also  used  the  word  "  real"  quite  too 
often,  as  "real  pleasant,"  "real  nice,"  "real  elegant,"  all 
of  which  made  Mrs.  Trevylyan  feel  as  if  rusty  scissors 
were  being  pushed  into  her  ears.  The  lesser  elegancies  of 
course  escaped  her.  These  could  only  come  with  time  and 
practice. 

So  Mrs.  Trevylyan  sent  for  Professor  Paton,  an  English- 
man, whose  neat  and  finished  speech  made  her  perfectly 
happy,  and  begged  of  him  to  obliterate  the  ruggedness  of 
this  provincial  speech. 

"  I  call  it  continental  speech,"  said  the  professor.  "  It 
is  all  over  your  great  country,  madam." 

"  How  do  you  hope  to  change  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  By  the  reading  of  the  best  authors  in  class  after  me, 
by  the  study  of  music,  and  particularly  by  the  study  of  the 
Italian  language,  that  liberates  the  throat." 

"  Oh  dear !  poor  Rose !  She  cannot  do  all  that  this  win- 
ter," said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"If  she  is  quick,  she  will  soon  begin  to  talk  like  me," 
said  the  professor,  laughing.  "  I  catch  the  girls  imitating 
me  very  often." 

"  I  could  wish  for  nothing  better,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan  ; 
but  she  felt  very  hopeless. 

She  had  underestimated  the  vigor  of  her  niece.  Rose 
was  soon  at  work  at  Italian  and  music,  and  never  missed  a 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  35 

I 

day  at  Professor  Paton's  class,  nor  her  beloved  horseback 
rides,  nor  her  attendance  at  Fanny  Grey's  sewing-circle,  nor 
her  ready  and  affectionate  devotion  to  her  aunt.  She  was 
full  of  the  ichor  of  youth,  and  New  York  was  exactly  the 
full  cup  of  which  she  loved  to  drink.  She  found  that 
blissful  excitement  which  makes  work  easy  in  a  highly 
charged  atmosphere,  where  every  one  is  at  work  and  in  mo- 
tion, as  in  the  great  city,  whose  pulses  beat  quickly  and 
deeply.  She  had  not  yet  learned,  poor  girl,  how  tremen- 
dous a  strain  it  was  to  be  upon  her  nerves,  or  how  she 
might  yet  pay  for  this  overwork  in  after-days — in  head- 
ache, in  sleepless  nights,  and  in  weary  years  of  nervous 
prostration.  All  was  bright  before  her,  excepting  one  lin- 
gering regret,  almost  a  pain. 

Where  was  Jack  Townley?  —  her  only  friend  in  New 
York,  of  whom  she  had  thought  as  she  had  looked  forward 
to  her  first  winter.  Where  was  the  man  with  the  delicate 
face,  the  strong  arm,  the  unerring  aim,  the  splendid  seat 
across  country  ?  Where  was  her  hero  ?  He  had  been  kind 
to  her  on  the  prairie;  he  had  looked  love,  if  he  had  not 
spoken  it ;  he  had  called  her  a  "  prairie  flower,"  and  other 
nice  names.  He  had  told  her  many  a  time  and  oft  that 
when  she  came  to  New  York  he  should  be  the  first  one  to 
greet  her.  She  knew  that  he  was  in  town,  for  she  heard 
his  name  every  day,,  But  he  had  not  answered  her  note, 
and  he  had  not  called.  Amid  all  her  work,  amid  all  her 
new  emotions  and  excitements,  this  thought  would  come 
back,  and  it  poisoned  her  pleasures. 

She  was  glad  that  he  had  not  seen  her  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's, 
for  she  was  now  conscious  that  she  looked  badly  then. 
She  was  glad  he  had  not  seen  her  mistakes  at  the  lunch — 
that  dreadful  lunch — where  those  girls  had  grinned  like 


36  A    THAHSFir.AKTKD    ROSE. 

fiends.  But  she  looked  better  now.  She  had  wondered 
why  he  was  not  at  the  hunt,  why  she  had  not  met  him  on 
the  Avenue,  or  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's  subsequent  evenings. 
Why? 

Her  first  ball,  however,  was  approaching,  for  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer, who  never  put  her  hand  to  the  plough  but  she  ad- 
vanced it  through  the  furrow,  had  seen  to  it  that  Rose  was 
aste-d  to  the  Patriarchs,  and  to  the  F.  C.  D.  C.,  and  to  all 
the  best  of  the  private  balls.  She  was  also  down  for  one 
of  Arthur  Amberley's  little  dinners,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  was 
to  chaperon  her.  When  she  was  dressed  for  her  first  ball 
in  one  of  Connelly's  best  and  simplest  ingenu  dresses,  with 
her  rounded  arms  covered  with  long  tan -colored  gloves 
nearly  to  the  shoulder,  with  her  superb  hair  braided  in  a 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  she  looked  like  anything  but 
the  girl  from  Chadvvick's  Falls.  She  was  conscious  her- 
self that  a  graceful  beauty  stood  before  the  cheval-glass, 
and  four  bouquets  claimed  her  attention. 

Alas !  not  one  had  the  card  she  wanted  to  see ;  not  one 
said  "  Mr.  John  Townley."  But  when  Mrs.  Trevylyan  put 
a  pretty  fan  at  her  side,  with  her  initials  painted  on  it  un- 
der the  guise  of  a  daisy  chain,  added  a  delicate  handker- 
chief to  put  in  her  almost  inaccessible  pocket,  and,  kissing 
her  cheek,  said,  "You  are  very  becomingly  dressed,  dear 
Rose,"  the  pleasant  feelings  overcame  the  disagreeable  ones. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  called  in  her  carriage  at  eleven  o'clock  to 
take  Rose  to  her  first  ball  at  Delmonico's. 

By  this  time  Rose  had  become  a  sensation.  Her  min- 
gled beauty  and  mistakes,  her  failures  and  her  successes, 
Sidonie's  attacks  and  Fanny  Grey's  partisanship,  besides  the 
quiet  endorsement  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Amberley,  and  the  care- 
fully prepared  report — partly  Arthur  Amberley's  mischief 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  37 

— that  she  was  a  great  heiress,  had  given  the  name  of  Rose 
Chadwick  a  certain  prominence  at  the  clubs  and  in  social 
circles.  The  wildest  rumors  were  afloat.  Some  people 
said  that  she  owned  a  silver  mine,  and  that,  next  to  the 
Baroness  Burdett-Coutts,  she  was  the  richest  woman  in  the 
world.  Others  said  that  she  had  saved  the  lives  of  three 
hunters  who  were  attacked  by  grizzly  bears.  Others  said 
that  she  was  an  utter  nobody,  whom  Mr.  Chadwick  had 
picked  up  in  the  streets  of  San  Francisco ;  that  he  had  no 
money,  but  was  an  adventurer,  a  gambler,  and  a  sot ;  that 
Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  a  wonderfully  credulous  woman  to  take 
her  at  all,  etc.,  etc.  (Of  the  prospective  fortune  there  were 
grave  doubts ;  and,  as  the  reader  has  a  right  to  look  be- 
hind the  scenes,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  Mr.  Chad- 
wick's  fortune  was,  like  many  another  American  fortune, 
very  apt  to  swing  like  a  pendulum  from  bad  to  good,  and 
from  good  to  very  bad.) 

But  here  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  now  well  dressed,  an  ex- 
cellent dancer,  and  under  the  most  fashionable  chaperon- 
age,  on  the  threshold  of  her  first  ball ;  and,  as  Lander's  de- 
licious strains  filled  the  room,  two  or  three  partners  dashed 
forward  to  claim  her  hand. 

Whatever  might  be  the  future  of  Rose,  that  first  hour 
was  full  of  delirious  delight,  and  she  was  not  aware  until 
she  had  completed  her  third  dance  that  Jack  Townley  was 
in  the  ballroom. 

Everything  faded  before  her  eyes,  and  home  came  back. 
Those  long  and  delightful  rides  across  the  prairie;  her  fa- 
ther, and  Fountain,  and  her  dear  dogs ;  and  Jack,  whom 
they  had  taken  care  of  when  he  was  ill — Jack,  who  had  been 
so  kind  and  so  familiar  a  presence ! 

She  darted  from  her  seat,  and  almost  ran  to  where  Jack 


38  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

i 

Townley  ?tood  with  a  group  of  young  men,  and,  holding 
out  her  hand,  said  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Townley,  have  you  forgotten  me  t  How  glad 
I  am  to  see  you  !" 

Jack  Townley  turned  pale.  He  saw  in  a  moment  how 
this  story  would  be  told,  and  how  he  should  be  laughed  at 
at  the  Union  Club  ;  but  he  responded,  of  course,  politely, 
and,  offering  his  arm,  started  for  a  promenade  round  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  was  talking  with  the  lady  next  to  her 
when  Rose  made  this  sudden  departure,  and  did  not  notice 
the  frightful  faux  pas  until  it  was  almost  too  late  to  rem- 
edy it. 

But  she  was  a  great  society  general.  She  therefore 
quickly  did  the  best  she  could.  Reading  the  scorn  and 
laughter  in  her  neighbor's  eyes,  she  immediately  left  her 
seat,  and  walking  towards  Rose  and  Mr.  Townley,  she  said, 


"  Oh,  Mr.  Townley,  I  am  so  glad  Rose  caught  you  !  I 
wanted  to  insure  your  presence  at  the  dinner  I  am  to  give 
her  on  Wednesday  week  —  and  you  are  always  in  such 
request.  Now  you  will  be  sure  and  come?  It  was  so 
thoughtful  of  Rose  "  —  with  this  she  gave  poor  Rose  a 
pinch  which  meant  "  Keep  your  mouth  shut,"  and  went  on, 
"  After  you  and  Rose  have  finished  your  walk,  bring  her 
to  me,  for  she  cannot  half  keep  her  engagements." 

And  thus  talking,  and  walking  half  round  the  room  with 
the  pair,  Mrs.  Mortimer  covered  Rose's  mistake  with  the 
large  mantle  of  her  own  imperial  social  position,  and  re- 
tired to  her  seat,  with  her  heart  beating,  and  with  the  de- 
termination to  give  Rose  a  good  scolding  for  her  impulsive 
action. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  39 

Jack  Townley  belonged  to  the  large  class  of  deliberate 
snobs  who  are  only  to  be  reached  by  the  sense  of  what  is 
useful  to  themselves.  He  had  liked  Rose  very  well  on  the 
prairie,  but  he  did  not  particularly  care  to  meet  her  at  Del- 
monico's.  He  was  engaged,  too,  in  a  very  engrossing  flir- 
tation with  Mrs.  Morella,  a  married  belle,  whose  smiles  were 
only  given  to  the  favorites  of  fashion.  He  was,  however, 
a  gentleman,  and  a  man  with  many  attractive  qualities. 
His  fine,  delicate  face,  and  tall,  slender  figure,  his  quiet,  ele- 
gant manners,  all  covered  physical  courage  and  manly  qual- 
ities which  had  made  him  respected  on  the  prairies.  Rose 
was  to  be  forgiven  if  he  had  touched  her  young  heart. 
There  were  few  women  who  did  not  find  him  fascinating, 
the  more  so  that  his  own  want  of  heart  left  him  always  in 
possession  of  his  intellect. 

He  saw  through  the  ruse  of  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  thanked 
and  respected  her  for  her  brave  rescue  of  her  young  charge, 
and  for  the  possibility  which  she  gave  to  him  of  refuting 
the  sarcastic  statements  which  Dicky  Smallwood  might 
make  at  the  club  of  the  impulsive  rush  of  the  young 
lady. 

There  was  therefore  nothing  before  Jack  Townley  but  to 
walk  and  dance  with  Rose,  although  he  did  not  answer  her 
beseeching  eyes  as  she  pointed  out  two  or  three  vacant 
places  on  her  card.  Pleading  his  own  engagements,  he 
left  her  with  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  returned  to  the  quiet 
corner  where  Mrs.  Morella  sat — already  with  a  black  cloud 
on  her  brow,  for  his  interrupted  allegiance  had  infuriated 
her — and  noticed  poor  Rose  no  more.  Rose  passed  the 
rest  of  the  evening  in  a  dream.  Dicky  Smallwood  took  her 
out,  and  told  her  all  about  Jack  Townley's  flirtation  with 
Mrs.  Morella — a  story  which  shocked  her, 


40  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  But  isn't  she  married  ?"  said  Rose,  catching  at  a  straw. 

"  Oh  yes ;  that's  her  husband  flirting  with  Sidonie.  He's 
as  great  a  flirt  as  she  is,  but  Jack  Townley  is  unusually  de- 
voted to  Mrs.  Morella ;  some  people  think  he  is  really  in 
love  with  her."  Then  Dicky  swung  her  off  in  a  galop. 

When  Arthur  Amberley  came  to  talk  with  Rose,  he 
found  her  so  distraite  that  he  could  hardly  get  an  answer 
to  his  questions  about  the  play,  the  hunt,  the  coming  din- 
ner, or  her  feeling  about  her  first  ball.  He  watched  her 
dark  eyes,  and  saw  that  they  were  glued  to  the  spot  where 
Jack  Townley  leaned  over  Mrs.  Morella's  ear,  and  he  read  the 
story  in  a  moment.  "  So  here  is  some  of  Jack  the  Lady- 
Killer's  work,  is  it  ?"  thought  he.  "  Poor  little  girl !  Well, 
let  us  try  the  effect  of  an  antidote." 

"  So  you  dance  the  German  with  Jack  Long,  do  you  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose,  gravely  and  absently.  It  seemed  so 
utterly  unimportant  with  whom  she  danced  now. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  Jack  Long  saved  a  life  to- 
day, and  has  done  a  fine  heroic  act,  and  I  think  he  did  it 
for  you.  Now  show  your  woman's  tact,  and  find  out  what 
it  was." 


VL 

ARTHUR  AMBERLEY  had  read  the  secret  of  Rose  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  adroit  plan  of  throwing  in  a  new  emotion — 
that  of  curiosity — was  an  admirable  one. 

Jack  Long  had  saved  a  life  for  her. 

Whose  life  ?  what  life  ? 

He  teased  her  too  apparent  desire  to  find  out  his  secret 


A    TRANSPLANTED    KOSE.  41 

after  the  most  approved  fashion,  and  her  cheeks  grew  red 
and  her  eyes  brilliant  as  she  questioned  him. 

While  they  sat  together  thus  talking,  they  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  very  best  possible  approach  to  a  fashion- 
able flirtation  in  the  eyes  of  the  gazers. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  was  delighted.  She  welcomed  Arthur 
Amberley  with  one  of  those  smiles  which  he  so  much  ap- 
preciated, and  with  the  remark:  "Your  tact  is  perfect. 
How  did  you  get  her  eyes  off  Jack  Townley  ?" 

Amberley  sank  into  the  seat  next  the  most  agreeable 
woman  in  New  York  society  with  an  air  of  virtue  rewarded. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mrs.  Trevylyan  made  Jack  Long  and 
myself  the  partners  in  a  little  plot.  She  sent  for  the  horse 
Fountain  to  Chadwick's  Falls,  and  we  were  to  receive  his 
equine  majesty  at  the  depot.  Of  course  I  gave  Jack  the 
job,  as  he  is  younger  and  more  firm-footed  than  I  am.  So 
our  modern  Alexander,  in  the  reception  of  Bucephalus, 
very  unwisely  sent  his  groom  up  with  a  saddle,  and  told 
him  to  ride  Fountain  down  to  Dickel's.  Then  just  re- 
membering in  time  that  a  strange  Western  horse  would  be 
frightened  at  the  elevated  road  and  at  civilization  generally, 
he  hurried  up  himself  to  the  Grand  Central,  to  find  Ferris 
struggling  with  Fountain,  who  was  mad  with  terror.  In- 
deed, he  was  backing  into  an  engine,  when  Alexander 
caught  him,  faced  him  towards  his  enemy,  and  saved  his 
life  and  legs.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

"  Rather  mixed  up,  I  must  admit.  Oh,  I  remember : 
Alexander  turned  the  horse  Bucephalus  towards  the  sun. 
Well,  Jack  turned  the  horse  Fountain  towards  an  engine." 

"  Yes  ;  and  Fountain — a  superb,  blue  -  grass  Kentucky 
thorough-bred — is  now  awaiting  Miss  Rose,  and  I  imagine 
from  her  cheek  and  lip  that  she  is  hearing  all  about  him." 


42  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"Very  good;  but  she  is  dreadfully  green.  Did  you  see 
her  rush  at  Jack  Townley?" 

"  Impulsive,  very,  but '  altogether  very  charming — so 
much  youth !"  said  Amberley,  in  an  absent  way.  It  was 
an  unlucky  speech,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  winced.  She  had 
every  charm  but — youth. 

"  You  must  be  brave,  and  tell  her  of  her  mistakes,"  said 
Arthur  Amberley,  whose  delicate  perception  felt  the  mis- 
take he  had  made,  and  who  repaired  it  as  well  as  he  could. 
"  Who  so  well  as  you  can  give  her  that  necessary  savoir- 
faire  without  which  her  own  natural  advantages  are  use- 
less?" 

Jack  Townley,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Morella,  felt  agitated, 
remorseful,  and  profoundly  curious  about  Rose.  He  told 
his  rather  disgusted  listener  of  Mr.  Chadwick's  hospitality, 
of  his  having  met  Rose  in  the  West,  of  their  hunting  ex- 
peditions. 

"You  men  don't  like  to  be  confronted  with  your  rus- 
tic lovers  at  Delmonico's,"  said  Mrs.  Morella,  scornfully. 
"  Now  do  you  ?" 

"  She  was  not  that,  I  assure  you.  I  never  saw  a  more 
dignified  girl,"  said  Jack  Townley,  beginning  to  be  aware 
that  Mrs.  Morella  had  too  much  perfume  on  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"I  do  not  understand  the  amount  of  talk  which  that 
girl  starts  up,"  said  Mrs.  Morella — "a  great  awkward,  un- 
formed, badly  dressed  savage,  who  puts  her  knife  into  her 
mouth,  drinks  out  of  her  finger-bowl,  talks  about  '  some 
of  the  terrapin,  if  you  please,'  and  who  rushes  at  young 
men  as  if  she  would  knock  them  down." 

"  She  dances  well,"  said  Jack  Townley,  as  Rose  floated 
by  them  in  the  masculine  girdle  of  Dicky  Smallwood's 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE  43 

arm.  Absorbed  as  he  bad  apparently  been,  he  had  watched 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  lady-killer  eyes  the  great  change 
which  had  come  over  the  complexion  and  the  expression  of 
the  poor  little  girl,  whose  pleasure  at  seeing  him  had  been 
so  cruelly  damped. 

He  did  not  like  to  see  her  so  easily  consoled,  very  awk- 
ward as  had  been  her  attack  on  him,  dreadfully  as  T>e 
dreaded  ridicule.  Snob  that  he  was,  there  had  been  a 
great  genuine  heart-throb  beneath  his  well-appointed  -^raisi- 
coat,  as  he  recognized  the  difference  between  the  genuine- 
ness of  her  admiration  of  him  and  the  utter  selfishness  of 
Mrs.  Morella's  back-handed  and  meretricious  admiration. 
The  wild  prairie  flower  smelled  very  sweet  beside  the  arti- 
ficial bouquet  which  Mrs.  Morella  offered.  To  be  sure,  he 
lived  in  a  world  to  which  artificiality  was  necessary,  but  he 
was  a  man,  and  a  young  man. 

But  Rose  did  not  look  at  him  again,  and  when  he  came 
to  ask  her  hand  for  the  galop,  she  said,  with  a  perfect 
truth  which  no  coquette  could  have  feigned, 

"  I  declare,  Mr.  Townley,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you." 

"  Mr.  Long  has  made  himself  very  agreeable,  I  imagine." 

"He  has — he  has  indeed,"  said  Rose,  thinking  only  of 
poor  Fountain,  her  dear  Fountain,  in  New  York,  frightened, 
out  of  place,  and  an  exile  like  herself. 

Capricious,  girlish,  changeful,  not  yet  mistress  of  her 
emotions,  angry  in  her  heart  at  Townley,  Rose  happened  in 
her  conduct  towards  him  to  behave  exactly  in  the  manner 
most  certain  to  rouse  the  curiosity  and  the  languid  worldly 
heart  of  the  lady-killer. 

He  was  piqued,  and  it  did  him  good.  Jack  Long  re- 
turned to  claim  his  partner.  When,  after  a  most  blissful 
dance,  Mrs.  Mortimer  called  Rose  to  tell  her  that  it  was 


44  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

time  to  go  home,  that  young  lady  looked  back  at  the  ball- 
room with  a  sort  of  thrill. 

Something  told  her  that  she  should  remember  the  even- 
ing as  long  as  she  should  live.  The  first  ball — whoever 
forgets  it? 

Arthur  Amberley  gave  her  his  arm  as  she  descended 
cloaked  to  the  carriage. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  he,  pressing  her  arm  ever  so 
slightly  to  his  side.  "  I  have  seen  many  debutantes,  and  I 
have  rarely  heard  so  many  compliments  for  any  one  of 
them." 

Rose  blushed  deeply  when  Mr.  Amberley  praised ;  old 
fellow  that  he  was,  she  felt  that  his  words  sank  deeply. 

But  Mrs.  Mortimer  gave  her  a  most  terrible  scolding 
when  she  got  into  the  carriage,  anent  her  sudden  rush  at 
Jack  Townley.  It  was  so  improper,  so  rude,  so  unladylike  ! 

Poor  Rose ! 

There  was  an  acrimonious  tone  in  the  lady's  voice  that 
struck  unfavorably  on  the  young  ear,  and,  humbled  and 
grieved  as  Rose  was,  she  could  not  but  feel  that  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer had  some  other  grievance  besides  the  dreadful  one 
of  her  misconduct.  Mrs.  Mortimer's  eludings  sounded  so 
differently  from  the  soft  and  lovely  apologetic  tones  of 
Mrs.  Trevylyan,  or  the  strong,  clear,  honest  voice  of  Miss 
Amberley. 

Rose  had  yet  to  learn  the  complexity  of  character  which 
goes  to  make  up  a  worldling,  even  a  worldling  so  thorough- 
bred and  so  truly  amiable  externally  as  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

Rose  had  not  heard  that  fatal  phrase  from  the  lips  of 
Arthur  Amberley,  "She  has  so  much  youth."  She  was 
too  truly  humbled  at  hearing  of  her  dreadful  misdemeanor 
in  the  matter  of  going  to  speak  to  a  gentleman  in  a  ball- 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  45 

room,  instead  of  quietly  waiting  and  allowing  him  to  speak 
to  her,  to  be  a  very  severe  critic  of  Mrs.  Mortimer's  manner. 

She  simply  sat  and  wept  into  one  of  the  many  faded 
bouquets  which,  when  they  arrived,  had  brought  only  per- 
fume and  joy. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  ever  learn.  He  reminded  me 
of  home  and — of  father,"  said  poor  Rose. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  he  thinks  of  your  modesty, 
Rose  ?  He  should  have  called  on  you,  and  he  should  have 
been  the  first  to  remember,  not  you.  To  be  sure,  he  is  a 
worldling  and  a  snob,  and  I  hate  him.  He  is  engaged  in 
a  most  outrageous  flirtation  with  a  married  woman,  but 
still  he  ought  to  have  remembered  your  hospitality.  I  can- 
not forgive  him  for  that  bit  of  ill-breeding." 

"  And  yet  you  asked  him  to  dinner,"  said  Rose. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  disliked  being  accused  of  want  of  con- 
sistency, and  she  answered,  somewhat  sharply :  "  We  do 
not  invite  men  to  dinner  because  of  their  moral  qualities, 
Rose,  but  for  their  agreeability,  and  for  their  fashion. 
Besides,  I  hastily  improvised  that  dinner  invitation  to  save 
you.  Had  I  not  done  that,  the  whole  club  would  be  laugh- 
ing at  you  at  this  moment." 

"I  will  go  back  to  Chadvvick's  Falls  to-inorrow,"  said 
Rose,  now  thoroughly  insulted. 

"  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer, 
whose  right  boot  pinched  her  dreadfully ;  her  temper 
pinched  also.  She  was  nervous,  tired,  worn  out,  and  she 
forgot  herself  for  a  moment.  The  carriage  stopped  at 
Mrs.  Trevylyan's  door,  and  Rose  alighted,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  what  you  have  done  for 
me,"  said  Rose,  "  but  I  will  not  come  to  your  dinner,  and 
I  never  wish  to  go  to  another  ball." 


46  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

This  was  said  on  the  steps,  and  after  the  footman  had 
rung  the  bell. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  a  great  horror  of  scenes,  and  a 
strong  desire  that  her  servants  should  hear  only  the  most 
formal  side  of  every  subject.  She  was  alarmed  at  the 
mountain  torrent  which  her  own  petulance  had  unloosed, 
and  she  hastily  called  Rose  back  to  the  carriage. 

"  You  must  control  yourself,  Rose.  Do  not  show  every 
feeling,  particularly  before  servants  ;  they  are  such  danger- 
ous spies.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  as  I  did.  Forgive  me, 
dear.  We  are  both  tired  and  cross.  I  must  say,  how- 
ever, you  have  looked  very  pretty,  and  behaved  very  well 
for  your  first  ball.  Now  go  in  and  go  to  bed,  and  I  will 
write  you  a  note  to-morrow." 

Rose  found  the  faithful  Martha  awaiting  her  with  a  cup 
of  hot  chocolate.  Martha  had  too  much  tact  and  ex- 
perience to  notice  the  hot  face  and  the  red  eyes,  but  un- 
dressed and  soothed  the  debutante  silently. 

The  sweet  sleep  that  never  mocks  us  by  running  away 
while  we  are  young  and  fresh,  but  reserves  its  capricious- 
ness  for  those  hours  when  we  are  old  and  nervous,  blessed 
the  soft  lids  of  Rose  as  soon  as  she  touched  her  pillow. 
It  was  twelve  o'clock  the  next  day  when  Martha  roused 
her  and  laid  a  note  on  her  pillow. 

It  was  from  Mrs.  Mortimer.  Rose  knew  her  elegant 
English  handwriting,  and  the  stiff,  smooth,  thick  paper, 
without  monogram  or  cipher,  which  betokened  the  perfect 
taste  of  the  accomplished  letter-writer,  as  well  as  the 
sharply  marked  seal  of  red  wax. 

"Mr  DEAR  ROSE, — In  my  desire  to  serve  you,  and  my  anxiety 
lest  you  had  caused  evil  and  envious  tongues  to  speak  ill  of  you,  I 
perhaps  used  stronger  language  than  I  should  have  done.  I  feel 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  47" 

that  I  unintentionally  hurt  your  feelings,  and  I  apologize.  I  trust 
that  you  will  forget  my  hasty  expressions,  and  let  nothing  come 
between  us  in  our  relations  of  chaperon  and  protegee. 

"You  must  not  go  to  Chadwick's  Falls,  nor  must  you  shun  my 
dinner.  It  is  given  to  establish  thoroughly  your  position  in  New 
York ;  and,  as  you  wish  with  me  to  save  your  dear  aunt  any  pain, 
suppose  we  do  not  let  her  know  of  the  contretemps  which  made  us 
almost  come  to  blows  in  the  carriage  ? 

"  I  will  call  at  four  to  take  you  to  Sidonie  Devine's  tea. 

"Ever  your  friend, 

"SOPHIA  MORTIMER." 


VII. 

ROSE  hastened  to  dress  to  go  to  her  aunt's  room  to 
thank  her  for  the  inestimable  gift  of  Fountain.  How  had 
she  remembered  to  be  so  kind?  She  asked  her  all  about  it. 

"You  have  a  very  indulgent  father,  Hose,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan. 

"  Poor  pa,"  said  Rose ;  "  how  lonely  he  must  be  with- 
out me !" 

"  He  writes  me  that  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  But 
he  is  glad  that  his  little  girl  is  happy.  Now  tell  me  about 
the  ball.  Was  it  a  success  ?" 

Rose,  with  a  pardonable  reticence,  gave  her  aunt  all  the 
good  without  any  of  the  sorrow  of  the  ball,  but  came  back 
again  to  Fountain  and  papa. 

"Do  you  remember  mamma?"  she  asked. 

"  Ah,  indeed  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  When  my 
brother  Pascal  went  to  Harvard  College,"  she  continued, 
after  a  moment,  "  he  was  considered  one  of  the  best  schol- 
ars in  his  class.  We  little  thought  of  any  career  for  him 


48  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

but  that  of  a  clergyman  or  a  lawyer;  but  he  has  turned 
out  a  Western  speculator.  Well,  everything  goes  differ- 
ently from  what  we  thought.  Your  mother,  too,  such  a 
student !  Why,  when  they  were  to  be  married,  I  remember 
she  asked  us  to  give  her  nothing  but  books,  instead  of  the 
point-lace  veil  that  we  had  intended  for  her.  Her  trous- 
seau was  a  very  simple  one,  but  your  father  took  a  large 
library  for  her  out  to  his  first  Western  home." 

"  I  have  it  yet,"  s-»id  Rose.  "  Pa  says  I  may  read  every 
book  in  it  as  much  as  I  please." 

Just  at  this  moment  a  loud  ring  was  heard  at  the  door, 
and  presently  Rourke  came  up  with  a  card. 

•"  For  Miss  Chadwick,"  said  he,  respectfully. 

"  The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,"  said  Rose,  blushing 
very  deeply. 

"  Who  is  he,  pray  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Ob,  a  friend  of  papa's — a  very  important  man.  He  is 
our  Congressman ;  but — I  hate  him." 

"  Why  do  you  hate  him,  dear  ?" 

"  Well,  he  chews  tobacco,  and  he  does  not  dress  nicely, 
and  he — sort  of — compliments  me." 

"  Well,  cannot  you  excuse  yourself  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  papa  says  I  must  be  very  polite  to  him.  He 
is  a  great  man — a  very  great  man,  I  believe,"  said  Rose. 

"  What  a  very  strange  man  my  brother  Pascal  is  !"  said 
Mrs.  Trevylyan  to  herself,  as  she  helped  Rose  to  entertain 
Mr.  Hathorne  Mack. 

He  was  a  large,  coarse,  beetle-browed  man,  with  heavy 
red  lips,  and  teeth  which  were  very  much  the  worse  for  to- 
bacco. He  wore  a  black  necktie  close  above  his  shirt  col- 
lar—  if,  indeed,  such  an  institution  existed — so  that  no 
linen  appeared  to  relieve  his  swarthy  complexion.  He 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  49 

talked  loud  and  defiantly,  paid  Rose  some  broad  and  rather 
distressing  compliments,  called  her  father  "  Pascal,"  and 
told  Mrs.  Trevylyan  that  she  looked  pretty  well  for  a  lady 
of  her  age. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  in  New  York  some  time,"  said  he,  en- 
couragingly. "  I'm  working  up  an  important  business  that 
we're  going  to  get  through  Congress — your  father  and  I — 
and  I  expect  to  come  and  see  you  quite  often.  I'll  take 
you  and  your  aunt  out  to  ride  after  my  fast  team,  and  also 
to  the  theatre,  if  you  like.  Pascal  told  me  to  see  to  his 
little  girl.  Ha!  ha!  guess  I  didn't  need  any  jogs  from 
him  to  help  my  memory,  Miss  Rose." 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  saw  him  depart  with  pleasure  and  with 
apprehension,  and  determined  to  write  to  her  brother  to 
ask  why  he  had  let  loose  this  dreadful  incubus  upon  them. 

However,  he  was  followed  by  a  caller  of  a  different  com- 
plexion— none  other  than  the  elegant  Jack  Townley,  who 
came  in  with  the  air  of  having  been  there  every  day  for  a 
week.  This  polished  corner-stone  of  society  made  no 
apology  for  not  having  called  before,  and  took,  as  he  did 
everywhere,  the  position  of  being  calmly  right  and  per- 
fectly serene.  Rose  was  crushed  by  this  manner,  and  for- 
got to  ask  him  why  he  had  not  been  to  see  her  sooner,  and 
why  he  had  not  answered  her  letter.  He  told  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan in  an  easy,  gossiping  way  of  the  belle  that  her  niece 
had  been  the  evening  before,  and  made  himself  so  agree- 
able that  the  call  seemed  a  short  one,  although,  when  he 
left,  the  eyes  of  Rose  sought  the  clock,  and  saw  that  he 
had  been  an  hour  in  the  room. 

"  A  very  well  bred,  agreeable  young  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan  after  he  had  left ;  "  and  it  is  a  blessing  to  see 
such  a  man — after  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack." 


50  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Aunt  Laura,  I  think  I  understand  New  York  less  and 
less  the  more  I  see  of  it,"  said  Rose,  musingly. 

"  No  doubt,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  reading  her 
niece's  thoughts,  by  the  clairvoyance  of  experience  and 
sympathy.  "Society  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  neophyte  to 
understand.  It  is  a  place  for  smiles  and  pleasant  words, 
for  social  greeting,  but  not  for  the  indulgence  or  display 
of  deep  feeling.  It  asks  no  explanations,  and  makes  none. 
We  are  all  its  subjects  and  slaves,  and  must  submit  to  its 
arbitrary  laws  if  we  keep  in  it;  and  also,  if  we  keep  in  it, 
we  must  swallow  a  bitter  pill  now  and  then.  But  the  true 
rule  is  the  juste  milieu.  Not  too  much  demand,  not  too 
much  contempt,  not  too  much  belief,  not  too  much  expec- 
tation: take  just  what  amuses  you." 

Rose  said  not  a  word,  but  she  put  her  rounded  chin  into 
her  hand,  and  thought  deeply. 

The  great  dinner  was  the  next  thing  in  order. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  been  to  see  Rose  several  times,  and 
was  most  affectionate  and  considerate.  Not  a  word  of 
what  had  passed  between  them  in  the  carriage.  "  Society 
makes  no  explanations,  and  expects  none." 

Mrs.  Mortimer's  dinners  were  famous,  and  as  Rose  en- 
tered on  Jack  Townley's  arm,  she  thought  she  had  never  seen 
so  beautiful  a  picture.  It  reminded  her  of  an  oil-paint- 
ing which  she  had  been  taken  to  see,  of  Louis  XIV. 
entertaining  Moliere.  She  admired  the  coloring,  all  white 
and  scarlet,  fire  and  snow  ;  the  table-cloth,  alternate  squares 
of  lace  and  linen,  through  which  a  scarlet  glimpse  made 
itself  manifest;  and  a  long,  silver-edged  waiter  with  mir- 
ror, on  which  floated  swans,  that  held  up  a  silver  e'pergne, 
in  which  were  masses  of  scarlet  carnations.  These  flow- 
ers were  the  only  ones  on  the  table,  and  filled  the  room 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  51 

with  their  spicy  fragrance.  There  was  much  gold  plate  on 
the  table,  and  dark  red  flagons  stood  in  gold  standards — 
everywhere  white,  red,  and  gold.  The  crystal  of  the 
glasses,  the  shaded  red  candles,  the  mirrors,  the  swans,  the 
flowers,  all  seemed  to  increase  the  tropical  warmth  of  that 
vision  of  luxury. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of  any  food  excepting  a 
few  bonbons  in  the  beautiful  high  glass  dishes,  which  were 
held  aloft  by  figures  of  nymphs  carved  in  silver ;  but,  after 
the  company  had  been  seated,  plates  of  raw  oysters,  soup, 
fish,  entrees,  pieces  de  resistance,  salads,  dessert,  ices,  fruits, 
seemed  to  follow  each  other  with  the  most  perfect  rhythm, 
as  if  they  danced  in  to  the  music  which  was  playing  outside. 

It  was  somewhere  in  the  fifth  or  sixth  course  that  her 
left-hand  neighbor,  a  young  man  whom  she  had  met  but 
once  before,  said  to  Rose,  drawlingly, 

"  These  grand  dinners  are  very  tiresome  :  don't  you 
think  so,  Miss  Chad  wick?" 

"  Tiresome !     No,"  said  Rose. 

"  Oh,  I  go  to  so  many,  and  nothing  new  at  any  one  of 
them !  Just  the  same  story  all  the  time !"  returned  her 
neighbor. 

"  I  never  went  to  one  before,"  said  Rose,  simply,  "  and  I 
think  it  is  the  prettiest  sight  I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  delightful  freshness  !"  said  Mr.  Walters.  "  What 
would  I  not  give  to  be  as  fresh  as  you  are !" 

"  Why  do  you  go  to  them,  if  you  do  not  like  them  ?" 
asked  Rose,  opening  her  eyes  wide  at  him. 

"  Oh,  the  claims  of  society !  One  cannot  refuse  without 
giving  offence,  you  know.  I  am  a  well-known  diner-out, 
and  I  must  go  or  die — I  must  die  in  the  harness,  and  keep 
going,  you  know." 


5S  X    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Rose  looked  at  his  exceedingly  commonplace  face  and 
healthy  color,  and  she  had  noticed  his  good  appetite  be- 
fore, so  she  could  not  see  any  immediate  signs  of  his  dying 
in  harness. 

Jack  Townley  had  heard  this  talk,  and  was  exceedingly 
amused.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Walters  was  engrossed  with  his 
other  neighbor,  Mr.  Townley  told  Rose  that  this  effete 
child  of  luxury  was  the  son  of  a  shoemaker,  who  had  by 
dint  of  his  inherited  money  from  the  man  of  lasts,  and  by 
indomitable  effort,  gained  a  foothold  in  society ;  that  this 
was  the  second  winter  that  he  had  ever  been  seen  in  New 
York  society,  and  his  first  dinner  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's. 

"Then  I  should  think  he  would  not  be  so  tired,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Tired !  he  is  in  the  seventh  heaven ;  he  never  was  so 
proud  and  happy  as  to-day." 

"  How  queer  society  is !"  said  Rose. 

"And  now  tell  me  about  my  friend  Mr.  Chad  wick,"  said 
false  Jack  Townley,  swinging  round  to  the  past  as  easily  as 
if  he  had  never  veered.  "  I  declare,  when  I  remember  all 
his  hospitality,  I  am  ashamed  that  all  I  could  do  for  him 
here  would  be  to  put  him  down  at  the  Union  Club.  That 
is  the  trouble  as  between  town  and  country — you  cannot 
return  the  kindnesses  here  which  you  receive  there."  And 
Jack  Townley  sighed  deeply. 

Rose  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  began  to  feel 
that  she  had  wronged  him. 

"  Papa  has  sent  me  Fountain,"  said  she. 

"  Has  he  ?"  said  Townley,  looking  up  with  his  most 
beaming  smile.  "  That  superb  creature  !  I  wonder  if  he 
will  be  safe  for  you  to  ride  in  New  York  ? — he  may  be 
frightened  here." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  53 

Rose  had  taken  up  her  dinner  card,  and  was  looking  at 
it  attentively ;  Jack  Townley's  eyes  were  renewing  that 
inner  agitation  which  she  had  determined  to  put  down. 

Suddenly  she  saw,  on  the  side  of  the  card  which  she 
had  not  turned,  a  picture  of  a  noble  black  horse,  and  un- 
derneath it  a  quotation  :  "  Thou  Fountain  of  all  joys." 

"  That  is  exactly  like  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  said  Jack  Town- 
ley.  "  She  has  made  an  appropriate  dinner  card  for 
everybody.  I  dare  say  she  sent  an  artist  to  the  stable  to 
sketch  your  horse." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  her,"  said  Rose,  looking  gratefully 
towards  Mrs.  Mortimer,  who  sat,  superbly  dressed  and  glit- 
tering with  diamonds,  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  servant  advanced  to  take  the  bouquets 
out  of  the  epergne  to  carry  them  about  to  the  fair  recip- 
ients. He  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  reach  the  flowers, 
and  Rose,  with  a  spirit  of  helpfulness,  and  also  perhaps  be- 
cause Jack  Townley's  eyes  had  fastened  themselves  upon 
her  face,  with  a  trembling  hand  essayed  to  help  him. 

She  pulled  the  flowers  out  of  the  little  socket  where 
they  stood,  and  in  so  doing  she  miscalculated  the  distance 
and  resistance,  and  over  went  the  whole  elaborate  structure 
on  its  side,  striking  on  its  way  one  of  the  ruby  glass  flag- 
ons which  stood  near  it  full  of  claret,  breaking  it,  and 
flooding  the  beautiful  lace  and  linen  cloth  with  the  worst 
stain  that  housewives  have  to  contend  with. 

This  crash  overcame  even  Mrs.  Mortimer,  who  lost  her 
smile  for  a  moment.  It  silenced  everybody,  and  it  petri- 
fied Mr.  Walters.  Jack  Townley  alone,  who  seemed  to  have 
recovered  his  good-breeding  as  if  by  magic,  exclaimed : 

"That  was  my  work,  Mrs.  Mortimer.  I  would  take  a 
flower  from  no  hand  but  Miss  Ch.»dwick's." 


54  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Well,  let  us  go  into  the  drawing-room,"  said  Mrs. 
Mortimer. 

Rose  had  hidden  her  confusion  behind  the  friendly 
shoulder  of  Fanny  Grey.  Sidonie  Devine  was  tittering 
ana  talking  with  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  a  young  baronet 
just  arrived  in  New  York  from  a  Western  hunt,  and  very 
much  of  a  swell,  whose  honorable  arm  had  taken  her  in  to 
dinner.  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  it  appeared,  did  not  smoke 
or  drink,  or  else  he  chose  to  appear  unlike  other  people, 
for  he  had  followed  the  ladies  into  the  room. 

Coffee  was  served,  and  Fanny  Grey  began  talking  very 
kindly  of  the  private  theatricals,  which  had  been  under- 
going a  rehearsal. 

"  Mr.  Amberley  said  you  were  doing  so  very  well,"  said 
Fanny  to  Rose. 

"Professor  Paton  is  trying  to  teach  me  to  read,"  said 
Rose,  modestly.  Sidonie  meanwhile  was  being  excruciat- 
ingly funny  to  Sir  Lytton,  describing  the  past  mistakes  of 
poor  Rose. 

"  What  did  you  say  her  name  is  ?"  asked  the  baronet. 

"  Rose  Chadwick." 

"  I  wonder  if  that  can  be  a  daughter  of  Pascal  Chad- 
wick  ?"  said  the  young  man. 


VIIL 

PASCAL  CHADWICK  was  one  of  those  men  who  had  been 
always  moving  towards  the  setting  sun.  He  had  carried 
his  young  New  England  wife  to  the  then  farthest  West, 
when  he  was  first  married,  and  there,  with  her  books  and 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  55 

her  neat-handed  thrift,  she  had  fought  fever-and-ague  and 
the  difficulties  of  frontier  life  with  silent  courage,  until  one 
day  she  lay  down  and  died,  as  did  hundreds  like  her. 

Eose  was  four  years  old  when  this  calamity  overtook 
her,  and  Pascal  Chadwick  was  in  despair.  He  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  the  child :  she  reminded  him  of  his  loss. 
Like  many  a  bereaved  person,  he  had  to  struggle  against 
an  unnatural  abhorrence  of  the  duty  left.  He  would  place 
her  from  time  to  time  in  the  family  of  some  good  married 
pair,  where  the  little  thing  grew  up  as  she  could — a  sort  of 
weed — but  he  scarcely  saw  her,  excepting  once  a  year. 
Meantime  his  fortunes  went  up  and  down  ;  he  mounted 
and  descended  the  scale  of  opulence  like  an  anchored  bal- 
loon, except  that  he  did  not  always  come  down  where  he 
went  up.  He  changed  his  spots  continually.  He  was  en- 
gaged in  every  railroad,  every  mining  adventure,  every 
speculation,  from  the  Colorado  to  the  Rio  Grande,  for 
years. 

Finally,  when  Rose  was  thirteen,  he  had  reached  what 
he  supposed  to  be  a  certain  fortune.  He  had  made  a 
good  thing  of  it  at  Chadwick's  Falls  ;  and  when  Rose 
joined  him  there  to  live  with  him,  she  found  a  commo- 
dious ranch,  horses  and  herds,  vineyards  and  wheat-fields. 
Her  father  was  living  like  a  Tartar  prince. 

Chadwick's  Falls  is  one  of  the  throats  of  travel.  Every 
one  must  go  through  it  who  wishes  to  reach  the  buffalo 
fields  to  the  north,  the  cattle  ranges,  and  the  gold  and  sil- 
ver mines.  There  Pascal  Chadwick,  after  twenty  years  of 
struggle  and  adventure,  settled  down. 

He  was  an  exceedingly  handsome  man,  tall  and  straight 
and  looked  well  in  his  careless  Western  garb  ;  a  hat  which 
would  have  made  the  fortune  of  Buffalo  Bill,  a  flannel 


56  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

shirt,  and  a  loose  coat  belted  in,  became  the  fine  athletic 
figure.  He  had  a  natural  address  which  was  suave,  plausi- 
ble, and  cordial.  No  man  met  him  that  was  not  fascinat- 
ed. His  early  education  gave  him  advantages  of  speech 
which  he  never  lost,  although  he  paid  little  attention  to 
books,  excepting  the  few  that  Rose  called  a  library.  His 
wife  had  been  his  inspiration  and  his  balance-wheel,  and 
he  never  recovered  from  the  loss.  Wherever  he  lived,  in 
hut  or  palace,  her  picture  hung  where  he  could  look  at  it, 
and  her  little  "  library "  stood  on  hastily  improvised 
shelves :  that  much  of  nobility  and  the  past  clung  to  him. 
But  the  rough  life  had  blurred  the  outlines  of  his  moral 
character.  He  was  not  too  fastidious  as  to  the  men  he 
knew ;  he  was  sometimes  called  tricky  in  business  matters. 
Men  who  made  money  by  him  called  him  a  "  rare  good 
fellow ;"  those  who  lost  money  by  him  called  him  a 
smooth-tongued,  plausible  visionary.  No  man  called  him 
scoundrel ;  but  his  character,  like  his  fortunes,  stood,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  on  somewhat  doubtful  trestlework. 

As  to  hospitality,  generosity,  personal  unselfishness,  and 
natural  charm,  Pascal  Chadwick  was  at  the  very  highest 
notch.  All  men  liked  him.  The  English  noblemen  who 
went  through  to  their  hunting  fields  often  stopped  a  fort- 
night with  him,  and  left,  perhaps,  a  few  hundred  pounds 
in  his  last  speculation.  All  the  scientific  men  on  their 
travels  paid  him  a  visit,  and  found  the  old  Harvard  culture 
peeping  out  in  his  conversation.  He  stood  at  the  golden 
gates  of  travel  a  sort  of  universal  host,  and  made  every- 
thing easy  for  everybody. 

Rose  had  grown  up  in  this  Western  caravansary  with  a 
father  whose  gentleness  and  indulgence  knew  no  bounds. 
He  began  to  love  the  child  when  she  had  been  with  him 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  57 

rbr  a  while,  and  had  made  some  feeble  attempts  at  educat- 
ing her.  Two  English  governesses  and  one  French  one 
had  been  carefully  imported,  but  as  all  these  ladies  tried  to 
marry  him,  and  as  he  had  Mr.  Moddle's  objection  to  being 
"  taken  alive,"  they  were  summarily  dismissed,  so  that  he 
merely  pointed  to  her  mother's  books  and  told  her  to 
read  them — it  was  all  he  could  do  for  her. 

Now  this  sort  of  browsing  for  education  is  very  good 
for  the  making  of  great  men,  but  it  does  not  make  a  con- 
ventional lady.  Rose  adored  her  father,  and  liked,  of  all 
things,  to  be  with  him.  But  he  was  a  busy  man,  freighted 
down  with  anxious  work,  and  he  had  little  time  for  her. 

She  did  not  like  all  of  his  friends,  the  Hon.  Hathorne 
Mack  least  of  all ;  and  there  were  other  men  of  very  much 
the  same  stamp,  all  connected  with  him  in  business,  that 
were  equally  distasteful  to  her,  poor  little  girl. 

She  used  to  retreat  to  her  own  room,  where  good  Mrs. 
Macpherson,  wife  of  her  father's  Scotch  shepherd,  would 
bring  her  her  meals  and  attend  to  her.  When  the  table 
got  too  full  of  men,  her  absence  was  never  commented 
upon.  She  was  not  missed. 

It  was  Jack  Townley's  visit  which  had  opened  the  eyes 
of  Pascal  Chadwick  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a  woman,  and 
a  beautiful  one — this  little  girl  whom  he  had  so  forgotten. 

Then  he  thought  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  with 
whose  husband  he  had  had  a  lifelong  quarrel.  But  Mr. 
Trevylyan  was  dead.  Would  not  Laura  forget  and  for- 
give, and  take  the  girl  ? 

The  rest  we  know.  After  her  departure,  Pascal  Chad- 
wick  felt  lonely  and  disturbed.  His  daughter  had  grown 
to  be  more  to  him  than  he  had  expected,  and  he  was  not 
sorry  when  a  young  English  baronet,  Sir  Lytton  Leycester, 


58  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

claimed  his  hospitality  on  his  way  East  from  the  hunting 
grounds. 

Of  all  the  men  whom  Pascal  Chadwick  ever  fascinated,  this 
young  Englishman  became  the  most  conspicuous  example. 
He  had  money  to  invest,  and  Chadwick's  silver  mines  and 
railroads  were  temptingly  displayed.  He  liked  the  life,  and 
he  liked  the  climate,  and  he  liked  Chadwick. 

"I  declare,"  said  he,  "if  I  had  not  five  houses  in  Eng- 
land, I  would  come  here  to  live." 

And  when  they  parted,  Chadwick  gave  Sir  Lytton  Leyces- 
ter  a  letter  to  his  sister  and  to  his  daughter. 

After  the  dinner  was  over,  and  Rose  had  reached  her 
own  room,  she  gave  way  to  a  long  and  bitter  fit  of  weep- 
ing. 

Her  luck  had  indeed  been  very  bad.  It  has  occurred  to 
most  of  us  sometimes  to  upset  a  glass  of  claret  on  a  snowy 
cloth,  and  we  have  been  very  much  mortified — but  it  has 
seldom  happened  to  us  to  break  two  decanters. 

Rose  reasoned  with  herself  as  to  what  evil  star  reigned 
over  her.  The  next  morning  she  determined  to  see  Har- 
riet Amberley  and  to  have  a  long  talk  with  her. 

"  Your  trouble  is,  Rose,"  said  Harriet,  kindl}-,  "  that  you 
are  too  impulsive.  Now  last  night  you  committed  the 
error  of  trying  to  help  the  servants.  That  is  quite  absurd. 
They  have  their  work  all  marked  out ;  you  but  embarrass 
them.  Now  a  woman  can  be  helpful  in  a  sick-room,  can 
be  helpful  at  a  fire,  on  a  burning  steamer,  in  her  own 
sphere  anywhere,  but  at  a  fashionable  dinner  she  must  be 
absolutely  passive.  She  need  only  ask  that  her  glass  be 
filled  with  water  and  her  piece  of  bread  be  renewed ;  all 
the  rest  is  done  for  her." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  59 

"  But  I  always  see  a  dozen  little  things  I  do  not  under- 
stand," said  Rose. 

"  Quietly  observe  them,"  said  Harriet,  "  and  they  will 
soon  come  to  you." 

"  Now  one  lady  put  her  gloves  in  her  champagne  glass. 
What  did  that  mean  ?"  said  Rose. 

"  Simply  it  was  her  rather  eccentric  way  of  showing  the 
waiter  that  she  did  not  want  any  champagne,"  said  Har- 
riet, smiling. 

"There  are  thousands  of  girls  like  me  who  do  not  know 
about  table  manners,"  said  Rose,  wiping  away  a  few  big  tears. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Harriet ;  "  but  very  few  as  willing 
to  learn  as  you  are.  Now  tell  me  how  you  used  to  live  at 
Chadwick's'Falls." 

"  We  seldom  had  any  table-cloth,  to  begin  with,  and  no 
napkins,  until  lately  we  had  Chinese  paper  ones,  and  all 
the  food  we  had  was  put  on  at  once — a  great  saddle  of 
venison,  a  soup  if  Mrs.  Macpherson  made  one,  and  then 
some  kind  of  pudding,  and  then  a  basket  of  peaches  and 
grapes,  better  than  any  here.  Father  used  to  have  his 
whiskey  in  a  black  bottle,  and  his  wine  from  his  own 
vineyards  in  pitchers.  I  did  see  some  nice  tables  in  San 
Francisco,  but  no  one  ever  told  me  anything  about  table 
manners." 

"  Never  mind,  dear  Rose ;  you  will  learn  soon.  Do 
you  know  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  wants  to  know  you  very 
much  ?  I  heard  him  telling  Sidonie  Devine  so  last  night, 
and  she  would  not  introduce  him." 

"  Oh,  Harriet,  how  good  you  are !  You  always  make 
me  feel  more  comfortable.  I  imagine  Sir  Lytton  Leycester 
is  one  of  papa's  friends.  I  wish  I  were  back  at  Chad- 
wick's  Falls." 


60  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  And  Fountain  in  New  York  ?"  said  Harriet. 

"  Yes,  dear  Fountain.  But  he  is  so  frightened  by  the 
elevated  railroad  that  Mr.  Long  says  I  must  not  ride  him 
for  some  time." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !"  said  Harriet,  who  was  a  fearless  horse- 
woman. "  Go  out  with  me  this  afternoon  to  the  Park.  I 
do  not  believe  in  horses  being  frightened." 

So  Fountain  was  brought  round,  and  knew  Rose  at  once, 
ate  sugar  out  of  her  hand,  and  she  and  Harriet  had  a 
delightful  ride,  with  their  grooms  behind  them  ;  and 
before  that  invigorating  gallop  was  over  Rose  had  for- 
gotten her  mistakes  and  misfortunes. 

Not  so  Mrs.  Mortimer,  who  came  with  clouded  brow  to 
see  Laura  Trevylyan  and  to  pour  out  her  woes. 

"She  is  hopeless,  Laura.  I  give  her  up.  To  see  my 
epergne  pulled  over,  and  my  flowers  scattered,  and  my 
beautiful  South  Kensington  drawn-work  table-cloth  ruined 
by  the  claret,  is  too  much.  This  is  the  second  claret  bot- 
tle she  has  broken.  Why,  the  men  at  the  club  already 
call  her  the  bottle-smasher,  and  say  she  will  raise  the  price 
of  claret.  I  cannot  assume  the  care  of  such  a  savage ;  you 
must  excuse  me.  And  then,  do  you  know,  she  is  a  flirt — 
a  regular  flirt.  She  attempts  to  flirt  with  Arthur  Amber- 
ley,  of  course  hopelessly.  I  wish  you  would  call  her  at- 
tention to  her  faults  in  that  particular." 

Mrs.  Trevylyan,  who  had  sat  pale  and  troubled  through 
this  diatribe,  now  laughed. 

"  Why,  Sophia,  she  thinks  Arthur  Amberley  a  grand- 
father ;  she  calls  him  '  old  gentleman,'  and  '  old  Mr. 
Amberley.' " 

"That  is  her  art  to  deceive  you.     She  is  a  bold,  bad  girl." 

"  Stop,  Sophia,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan ;  "  I  will  not  hear 


A   TRANSPLANTED   B08E.  61 

that.  Rose  is  awkward  and  unfinished,  as  I  told  you,  but 
her  nature  is  as  sweet  and  pure  as  her  name.  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  chaperon  her  further,  of  course.  I  regret  your 
mortification  of  last  evening,  and  your  table-cloth." 

"  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  to  see  Mrs.  Trevylyan  and  Miss 
Chadwick,"  said  Rourke,  in  a  loud  voice,  handing  in  a 
couple  of  letters. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  read  her  brother's  letter. 

"  He  wants  to  see  Rose !"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  scornfully. 

"  Come  down  with  me,  won't  you,  and  help  me  enter- 
tain him  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  pleasantly. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  went  down  to  hear  the  titled  guest,  in 
whom  she  had  taken  much  pride  (for  Sir  Lytton  was  a 
great  swel'l),  praise  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  Rose,  speak 
of  his  obligations  to  her  father,  and  in  every  way  make 
himself  most  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  By-the-way,  I  have  just  seen  Miss  Chadwick  on  a  very 
good  horse  in  the  Park,"  said  Sir  Lytton,  "looking  un- 
commonly nice,  do  you  know." 

"  Oh  yes,  Fountain,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan ; 
"  just  arrived  from  Chadwick's  Falls." 

"  Oh  !  one  of  my  friend's  famous  thorough-breds  ?"  asked 
Sir  Lytton. 

"  I  suppose  so.  My  brother  lives  for  his  flocks  and 
herds,  I  believe,  does  he  not  ?" 

"  Your  brother  is  simply  the  most  fascinating  person  I 
have  ever  met :  so  simple,  so  frank,  so  invigorating  in  every 
way  !  I  dare  say  you  have  not  seen  him  lately  ?" 

"  Not  for  twenty  years,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Fancy !  twenty  years !  Well,  I  hope  it  will  not  be 
twenty  years  before  /  see  him  again,  nor  twenty  hours 
before  I  see  his  daughter." 

5 


62  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE- 

"  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Tra- 
vylyan. 

"  Most  assuredly,  with  the  greatest  pleasure." 

"You  had  better  consult  your  diary,  Sir  Lytton,"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  sweetly.  "  You  know  you  told  me  you  had 
no  end  of  engagements." 

"  I  shall  break  all  of  them  to  meet  Miss  Chadwick  again," 
said  Sir  Lytton.  "  Good-morning." 

After  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Mortimer  said,  blandly  :  "  You 
must  remember,  Laura,  that  he  is  famous  for  good  manners 
when  he  chooses,  but  he  is  an  intolerable  eccentric.  Be 
prepared  for  any  exhibition  of  bad  manners  from  him  to- 
morrow." 

" '  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,' "  said 
Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  I  thought  him  charming  this  morning." 

"  Oh  yes ;  when  he  is  in  his  flattering  mood,  no  one 
better.  But  hear  him  talk  of  breaking  an  engagement! 
Just  like  his  English  insolence  !" 

"  I  hope  he  will  not  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  By-the-way,  Laura,  I  was  hasty  in  what  I  said  about 
Rose.  I  will  not  be  as  cruel  as  my  words.  Of  course  the 
upsetting  of  my  epergne  upset  my  temper.  Let  her  come 
to  me  as  she  has  done,  and  I  will  take  her  to  the  Suffields' 
ball.  Forget  and -forgive,  won't  you,  Laura?"  And  Mrs. 
Mortimer  smiled  fascinatingly. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  had  not  summered  and  wintered  her 
friend  Sophia  without  knowing  pretty  well  what  were  the 
springs  of  conduct,  and  she  said  "Yes"  without  smiling, 
although  after  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  left  she  did  smile  behind 
her  handkerchief,  and  went  up-stairs  to  write  a  note  or  two 
for  her  own  little  dinner  of  the  morrow. 

She  asked  Arthur  Amberley  and  his  sister,  and  a  very 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  63 

agreeable  woman  who  talked  well — Mrs.  Carver — to  meet 
Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  and  then,  telling  Rourke  to  be  ready 
for  a  little  dinner  of  six  people,  went  out  for  her  afternoon 
drive. 


IX. 

NOTHING  could  be  more  calm,  quiet,  proper,  conven- 
tional, and  easy  than  was  the  demeanor  of  Rose  at  her 
aunt's  little  dinner.  Sir  Lytton  had  come  early,  had  told 
her  about  her  father,  had  brought  all  sorts  of  messages 
from  him  and  from  Mrs.  Macpherson,  knew  the  names  of 
all  her  dogs,  and  was  so  gentle  and  fascinating  that  Rose 
felt  at  once  at  her  ease.  A  little  dewy  moisture  would 
gather  round  her  eyes  as  he  talked  of  her  pug  Mars,  a  very 
great  darling ;  but  she  had  never  looked  so  like  the  moss- 
rose  which  she  wore  in  the  corsage  of  her  white  dress  as 
she  did  when  Arthur  Amberley  and  his  sister  entered. 

It  was  a  charming  little  dinner,  and  everything  seemed 
to  go  off  of  itself.  Mrs.  Carver  talked  so  well  that  Rose 
kept  thinking  she  should  like  to  write  down  all  .that  she 
said ;  and  her  own  dear  aunt  Laura  came  out  as  a  hostess 
of  the  rarest.  Sir  Lytton  was  in  great  spirits,  and  talked 
of  his  adventures  in  the  West,  making  always  a  hero  of 
her  papa.  Both  Arthur  Amberley  and  his  sister  were  so 
agreeable  that  Rose  felt  wrapped  in  a  soft  cloud  of  happi- 
ness. She  did  not  think  of  herself  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  dinner — the  best  fact  in  her  favor,  for  both  the 
men  looked  at  her  with  eyes  which  plainly  told  of  their 
admiration. 

"  What  a  beauty  your  niece  is  !"  said  Mrs.  Carver,  as  tha 


64  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

two  elderly  ladies  were  left  alone,  Harriet  and  Rose  having 
gone  up  to  indulge  in  a  little  chat  in  the  boudoir. 

"  Not  a  beauty — very  pretty,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan ;  "  but  with  much  to  learn  yet.  You  have  heard  of 
her  mistakes  ?" 

"  Well,  Sidonie  Devine  has  talked  of  nothing  else,"  said 
Mrs.  Carver,  "  and  I  watched  to  see  if  she  swallowed  the 
pepper-caster.  Oh,  she  will  do  very  well." 

"  She  is  going  to  Professor  Paton's  reading  classes,  and 
we  hope  to  improve  her  pronunciation,"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
vylyan. 

Arthur  Amberley  and  Sir  Lytton  entered  just  as  the  two 
girls  descended  the  stairs,  and  Rose  had  in  her  hand  a  little 
book. 

"  I  have  learned  my  part !"  said  she,  gayly.  "  What  a 
very  disagreeable  girl  she  is,  that  governess — why  did  you 
give  her  to  me  ?" 

"  It  is  a  very  important  part  in  the  play,  and  I  do  not 
think  her  disagreeable,"  said  Arthur  Amberley. 

"  She  is  in  a  disagreeable  position,"  said  Rose. 

"  Of  course ;  that  is  the  germ  of  the  play.  A  coarse, 
handsome,  rich,  flirtatious,  vulgar  woman,  anxious  to  be  ad- 
mired herself,  hires  a  poor  gentleman's  daughter,  takes  her 
to  a  watering-place,  and  there  discovers  that  the  people  will 
admire  the  refined  governess  rather  than  the  unrefined  mis- 
tress. The  mingled  dignity  and  anxiety  to  please,  the  dis- 
tress of  the  poor  governess  at  the  false  position  in  which 
she  is  placed,  the  sweetness  with  which  she  takes  the  out- 
rageous, insulting  revenge  of  the  angry  lady  (if  I  may  so 
misuse  the  beautiful  word),  are  all  admirably  fitted  for  the 
display  of  talent,  which  I  know  you  have,  Miss  Chadwick." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rose,  blushing  scarlet  at  the  compliment, 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  65 

"  you  throw  a  new  light  on  the  character.  I  am  so  stupid! 
I  did  not  see  all  these  lights  and  shades  then.  I  wonder  if 
you  would  read  the  part  to  me  ?" 

"  I  wonder  if  I  wouldn't,  Miss  Chadwick.  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan,  when  can  I  have  this  beautiful  Eastlake  dado -fur- 
nished portiere  parlor  of  yours,  for  a  private  coaching  of 
Miss  Chadwick?  You  are  so  aesthetic  that  you  have  no 
light  here.  I  shall  require  a  blaze  of  morning  sunlight 
for  the  occasion,  as  my  eyes  are  failing  me.  Miss  Chad- 
wick's  complexion  and  mine  can,  however,  stand  a  clear 
morning  light." 

"  I  ask  to  be  admitted  as  critic  of  the  morning  papers," 
said  Sir  Lytton. 

"And  I  must  come  as  maiden  aunt,"  said  Harriet  Am- 
berley. 

"  I  insist  on  my  rights  as  the  general  public,"  said  Mrs. 
Carver. 

"  I  will  have  none  of  you,"  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  I 
am  to  coach  my  actors  alone.  Mrs.  Trevylyan  may  sit  in 
yonder  window  with  her  embroidery,  if  she  promises  not 
to  speak." 

"You  muzzle  me  in  my  own  parlor?"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
vylyan. "  Well,  I  will  submit.  Come  to-morrow,  Arthur, 
for  I  think  Rose  ought  to  have  a  great  deal  of  training." 

"  Professor  Paton  is  training  me  too,"  said  poor  Rose, 
rather  mournfully. 

"  Oh,  he  is  such  a  pet,  such  a  favorite,  such  an  oracle, 
with  all  of  you  women,  that  I  do  not  think  he  will  be  se- 
vere enough,"  said  Arthur  Amberley. 

"  He  is  very  severe,"  said  Rose.  "  He  says  I  must  drop 
my  R's,  and  that  I  shall  need  three  months'  training  on 
my  Shakespeare  lesson." 


66  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Well,  if  you  get  his  delightful  accent,  Miss  Chadwick, 
you  will  be  fortunate.  We  have  all  of  us  need  of  a  little 
of  that  delicate,  unexaggerated,  and  perfect  English  accent 
•which  makes  his  reading  so  refreshing.  Well,  when  shall 
the  rehearsal  commence  ?" 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  "  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

"I  will  be  here  as  promptly  as  the  baker's  man,"  said 
Amberley.  "  So  good-night ;"  and  he  and  his  sister  took 
their  leave. 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  him  take  such  an  interest  in 
Rose  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Trevylyan  in  a  whisper  of  Mrs.  Carver. 

"My  dear,  don't  you  see  it?     He  is  in  love  with  her." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Carver,  how  absurd !  Arthur  Araberley,  who 
has  known  every  fascinating  woman  for  the  last  twenty 
years,  who  is  the  perfection  of  worldly  culture,  who  would 
die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain — he  in  love  with  an  unculti- 
vated Western  girl  who  has  no  savoir-faire  !  Never !" 

"  My  dear,  have  you  forgotten  your  primer  ?  Do  you 
not  know  that  freshness  is  what  such  men  adore  ?  Now 
I  find  your  Rose  singularly  attractive  —  something  new 
to  the  palate,  like  Catawba  wine,  or  Isabella  grapes,  or 
prairie-chicken.  'She  is  truly,  purely  American — a  great 
compliment.  See  our  English  friend  hanging  over  the 
piano." 

And  Mrs.  Trevylyan  peeped  through  the  portieres  into  a 
music-room  where  Rose  sat,  her  fingers  slowly  wandering 
over  the  keys  as  she  struck  a  few  simple  chords,  and  Sir 
Lytton  was  bending  over  and  talking  to  her  with  a  rapt 
expression. 

Mrs.  Trevylyau  laugted.  "She  has  a  queer  knowledge 
of  music,  and  can  play  and  sing  a  little.  I  think  the  Eng- 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  67 

lisli  governess  who  was  sent  away  for  wishing  to  marry  my 
brother  must  have  been  rather  a  genius  in  the  way  of  teach- 
ing. Come,  we  will  follow  them.  I  do  not  wish  our  Eng- 
lish friend  to  think  that  we  have  no  idea  of  chaperonage  in 
this  country.  He  and  Rose  have  been  together  long  enough. 
They  always  misinterpret  us  here,  for  they  see  too  many  on 
the  other  side,  too  many  careless  mammas,  and  too  many 
emancipated  daughters." 

So  the  two  ladies  walked  into  the  music-room,  dropping 
the  portiere  behind  them. 

"  You  said  something  about  this  being  an  Eastlake  house, 
Mrs.  Trevylyan,"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  Now  we  do  not  allow 
that  term  in  England.  We  consider  that  too  great  a  com- 
pliment to  Eastlake.  This  is  a  lovely  Queen  Anne  house, 
in  the  highest  style  of  decorative  art." 

"  It  was  my  guest,  Mr.  Amberley,  who  called  this  an 
Eastlake  house,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  I  am  too  thorough 
a  student  of  Burne-Jones,  William  Morris,  and  the  other 
sage  greens  to  make  that  mistake,"  she  added,  with  her 
quiet  smile. 

"You  have  waked  up  a  sleeping  lion  of  the  Decorative 
Art  Society,"  said  Mrs.  Carver. 

Sir  Lytton  knew  all  about  South  Kensington  designs  for 
stained  glass,  picture-frames,  and  ceilings,  wall-papers  and 
wall -decoration,  brasses  and  mahogany  furniture,  spindle- 
legs  and  old  clocks.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  Mrs.  Tre- 
vylyan's  house  was  full  of  gems,  and  his  few  well-spoken 
compliments  went  to  the  heart  of  the  lady  collector. 

"  Such  old  blue !  such  Capo  di  Monte !"  said  he,  admir- 
ingly, looking  at  the  shelves  over  the  fireplace. 

"  I  wondered  why  Aunt  Laura  hung  up  so  many  plates 
on  the  wall,"  said  Rose,  beginning  to  show  her  ignorance 


68  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

of  the  modern  principles  of  decorative  art.  "I  should 
keep  my  plates  in  the  closet." 

"  Not  such  plaques  as  these,"  said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  These  are  painted  by  a  native  genius,"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
vylyan,  "  a  young  New  York  girl,  who  has  found  in  herself 
the  genius  of  an  Angelica  Kauffman.  Rosina  Emmet." 

"And  those  Cincinnati  artists,"  said  Sir  Lytton,  "how 
clever  they  are !" 

"  Yes,  here  is  a  plate  of  Miss  McLaughlin's,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan,  "  hung,  you  see,  between  two  of  the  best  mod- 
ern English." 

"  How  very  ugly  those  old  yellow  and  green  things  are !" 
said  Rose,  yawning  perceptibly. 

"  My  dear,  these  are  priceless  majolica,"  said  Mrs.  Carver. 

Rose  was  very  weary  of  all  this :  she  had  not  been  tu- 
tored in  the  modern  art  talk.  It  was  all  beyond  her  ken 
as  yet.  Ceramics,  ecclesiastical  embroidery,  lace-work,  crew- 
els and  cat-tails,  wood-carving  and  modern  tapestry,  were 
as  yet  anything  but  talismanic  words  to  this  child  of  nat- 
ure. The  open-sesame  had  not  yet  been  spoken. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan,  who  had  been  charmed  with  Rose  up  to 
this  period,  began  to  be  a  little  disgusted  at  her  evident 
weariness,  her  undisguised  yawns,  her  attitude  of  inatten- 
tion. Perhaps,  if  Mrs.  Trevylyan  had  a  weakness,  it  was 
her  aesthetic  taste,  and  she  looked  sternly  at  Rose.  Mrs. 
Carver,  with  ready  tact,  saw  the  situation,  and  covered  it 
with  her  woman's  wit. 

"  Your  aunt  says  that  you  play  and  sing  a  little,"  said 
she.  "  Would  you  oblige  me  with  an  English  ballad  ?  I 
am  so  tired  of  Italian  bravuras  badly  sung.  Now  what  do 
you  know  ?  Oh !  here  is  one  of  my  delights,  '  Douglas, 
Douglas,  tender  and  true.'  Will  you  sing  that  ?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  69 

"I  am  afraid  I  do  not  sing  well  enough.  I  know  I 
don't,"  said  Rose,  very  decidedly. 

"  Oh  yes,  Rose,  sing  that,  dear ;  we  are  a  forgiving  trio," 
said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  sure  that  Rose  would  appear  better 
anywhere  than  on  decorative  art.  "  Sing  it  as  well  as  you 
can." 

"Let  me  play  your  accompaniment,"  said  Sir  Lytton, 
and  he  took  the  music  and  struck  a  few  chords. 

Something  in  the  way  he  played  that  touching  and  love- 
ly melody,  which  sets  the  gem  of  Miss  Mulock's  poetry  so 
well,  gave  Rose  confidence  and  breath.  She  lost  sight  of 
herself,  and  thought  only  of  the  words. 

Beginning  with  a  little  tremor,  she  went  on  improving 
with  every  line.  Her  voice  was  that  excellent  thing  in 
woman,  a  contralto,  and  of  pure  quality.  Of  course,  to  the 
three  listeners,  all  good  judges  of  music,  she  was  full  of 
faults,  but  she  had  the  great  elements  of  simplicity, 
strength,  good  voice,  and  dramatic  feeling. 

"  Delightful  song  that,"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  You  have 
been  taught  by  some  one  who  knew  how  to  take  breath." 

"Yes,  my  English  governess,  Miss  Marjoribanks,"  said 
Rose. 

"  What,  old  Marchbanks  who  used  to  teach  my  sisters ! 
I  wonder  !"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  Now,  how  too  too  funny  ! 
I  knew  she  came  over  here.  Now,  her  name  wasn't  Re- 
becca Ethel — don't  tell  me  that  it  was  !" 

"  It  was — Rebecca  Ethel,"  said  Rose.  "  Did  you  know 
her?" 

"  The  bane  of  my  childhood !"  said  Sir  Lytton,  "  but  a 
good  teacher.  Did  she  put  you  through  Hangnail's  Ques- 
tions?' 

u  I  know  every  one  by  heart,"  said  Rose. 


70  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  Good-night,  Miss  Chad- 
wick.  I  trust  you  will  soon  come  and  spend  a  morning 
with  me — won't  you?"  said  the  good  talker  to  Rose. 

"  I  should  be  so  glad !"  said  Rose,  who  wanted  to  hear 
those  delicious  accents,  those  lips  drop  pearls  and  dia- 
monds, again. 

"  And  I  too,  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  Forgive  me ;  I  have  stayed 
forever,"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  '  Forgive  the  crime.' " 

"  I  will,  if  you  will  come  again  soon,"  said  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan. 

After  they  were  gone,  Mrs.  Trevylyan  gave  Rose  a  little 
scolding  about  her  yawning  in  company. 

Rose  was  in  a  delicious  dream,  and  hardly  heard  her 
aunt. 

"The  principle — the  first  principle  of  good  manners  is 
self-control,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  You 
appeared  so  well  at  dinner,  were  so  delightfully  uncon- 
scious, that  I  did  not  like  to  see  a  relapse  into  carelessness ; 
I  did  not  want  you  to  yawn  in  Mrs.  Carver's  face." 

"  Aunt,"  said  Rose,  "  I  think  this  was  society  ;  I  think 
this  little  dinner  was  what  I  have  been  dreaming  of.  I 
won't  yawn  again.  I  am — so  sleepy." 


X. 

ARTHUR  AMBERLEY  came,  as  he  said  he  would,  as 
punctually  as  the  muffins. 

Rose  was  perfectly  astonished  at  the  gravity  and  the 
business  manner  which  had  succeeded  to  the  gay  society 
badinage  of  the  night  before. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  71 

"  I  consider  that  anything  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth 
doing  well,  dear  Miss  Rose,"  said  he ;  "  and  when  I  assumed 
the  leadership  of  these  private  theatricals,  I  intended  to  do 
the  thing  in  a  business-like  manner.  No  giggling  and  no 
carelessness  at  my  rehearsals.  I  respect  and  believe  in  the 
noble  art  of  the  drama  too  much  to  tamper  with  it.  It  is 
the  business  of  many  gifted  men  and  women  to  work  at 
and  perfect  themselves  in  the  art  of  acting,  and  we  see, 
alas !  even  then,  how  a  lifetime  fails  often  of  making  a 
good  actor;  and  yet  we  must  accord  to  all  the  profession- 
als a  certain  finish  and  grace  which  no  amateur  can  easily 
rival.  On  the  other  hand,  we  know  that  certain  people  are 
gifted  with  a  mimetic  power ;  even  in  our  own  little  circle 
we  shall  find  a  different  order  of  merit  in  the  very  first 
reading.  Jack  Long  is  an  excellent  amateur  actor,  Jack 
Townley  is  a  very  poor  one,  while  Dicky  Smallweed,  for  a 
certain  order  of  character,  is  better  than  either  of  them. 

"  I  think  my  sister  Harriet  a  very  bright  woman,  but 
she,  again,  is  a  very  poor  actress,  and  so  I  have  given  her  a 
very  small  part.  Miss  Devine,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  very 
good  actress  in  certain  parts,  if  we  can  trust  her  temper; 
but  if  she  is  disposed  to  be  ill-natured,  she  will  spoil  her 
part  just  to  spite  the  rest.  You,  I  think,  have  got  some 
important  qualifications  for  the  part  I  have  given  you,  and 
all  I  have  to  fear  from  you  is  stage-fright.  Now  I  want 
you  to  know  your  part  so  well  that  you  cannot  forget  a 
word;  then  I  want  you  to  submit  to  my  tiresome  and  re- 
peated corrections ;  then  I  want  you  to  think  of  the  part. 
I  want  you  to  make  it  a  part  of  yourself.  Sit  down  with 
it,  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  the  governess,  dream  of  it, 
take  it  out  to  walk  with  you,  and  remember  that  if  you 
qan  once  enter  into  the  life  and  spirit  of  your  heroine's 


72  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

feelings,  you  have  taken  the  first  step  towards  being  a 
great  actress. 

"  In  the  remote  contingency  of  your  failure,  which  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  think  of,  still  remember  that  a  part  thus 
earnestly  studied  will  be  of  great  use  to  you  in  the  future 
study  of  another  part.  No  work  is  ever  thrown  away. 
And  the  work  over  private  theatricals  has  this  advantage  : 
we  learn  by  it  a  great  deal  of  human  nature — always  a 
useful  and  an  entertaining  study — not  always  of  its  best 
side,  but  a  great  deal  that  may  be  of  service." 

Rose  was  a  singularly  obedient  pupil  to  her  kind,  intelli- 
gent, if  rather  exigeant  instructor.  She  had  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  knowing  nothing.  She  had  no  cherished 
opinions  (presumably  wrong  ones)  on  the  subject  of  act- 
ing. She  had  seen  a  few  plays,  mostly  very  blood-and- 
thunder  ones,  when  she  visited  large  cities  with  her  dear 
father.  She  had  seen  Shakespeare  played  generally  with 
great  disappointment,  for  she  had  been  in  her  small  way  a 
loving  reader  of  the  greatest  of  dramatists,  and  her  mother's 
copy  was  Knighfs  Pictorial,  richly  annotated.  One  of 
Pascal  Chadwick's  few  literary  accomplishments,  retained 
from  the  days  of  his  college  life,  had  been  occasionally  to 
read  to  his  daughter  the  gloomy  speculations  of  Hamlet 
and  the  glowing  hopes  of  Henry  V.  Together  they  had 
wept  over  Juliet  and  laughed  with  saucy  Rosalind.  Then 
Rose,  lying  flat  on  her  back,  would  hold  the  book  up  to 
the  light  and  read  the  notes,  and  look  at  the  delightful 
illustrations,  during  her  many  lonely  hours.  Professor 
Paton  was  delighted,  when  he  came  to  read  with  her,  to 
see  how  much  she  knew  of  the  thought  of  Shakespeare,  al- 
though she  had  little  or  no  skill  as  yet  in  reading  aloud 
his  eloquent  and  profoundly  suggestive  lines. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  73 

Arthur  Amberley  was  so  conscientious  a  trainer  that  one 
might  have  said  he  loved  his  work,  and  there  was  a  per- 
ceptible cloud  on  his  brow  when  one  morning's  seance  was 
broken  in  upon  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Mortimer.  We 
must  pause  here  to  mention  an  episode. 

A  strange  gentleman  had  appeared  once  or  twice  in  the 
parlors  as  Rose  had  called  lately  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's,  and 
she  had,  on  going  out,  asked  the  butler  who  he  was.  Her 
astonishment  knew  no  bounds  when  she  was  told  that  it 
was  Mr.  Mortimer. 

"  Oh,  a  brother-in-law  ?"  she  asked. 

"  My  master,  Mr.  Mortimer,  Mrs.  Mortimer's  husband," 
said  the  man,  hardly  able  to  keep  his  respectful  counte- 
nance. 

Rose  had  walked  home  in  a  maze  to  ask  Mrs.  Trevylyan 
what  this  phenomenon  meant. 

"  I  always  thought  she  was  a  widow,"  said  Rose,  un- 
willing to  believe  in  the  wraith  of  Mortimer. 

"  Oh  no.  Mr.  Mortimer  takes  long  journeys,  goes  a 
great  deal  to  the  South  and  to  Europe ;  but  it  is  he  who 
makes  all  the  money,  he  who  builds  and  furnishes  their 
splendid  house.  He  is  a  very  important  man,  Mr.  Morti- 
mer," said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Does  his  wife  love  him  ?"  asked  Rose,  who  had  not 
found  Mr.  Mortimer  attractive. 

'•  Oh,  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  That 
is  not  a  question  you  must  ask,  Rose.  We  never  ask  such 
questions.  They  are  a  very  proper  married  pair,  and  if 
there  is  no  love,  there  is  a  well-bred  indifference  between 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer,  which  never  offends  les  convenances." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  Rose,  do  not  be  so  literal.     It  means,  in  New  York, 


74  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSB. 

where  a  man  must  be  down  at  the  Stock  Exchange,  and 
the  woman  must  be  going  into  society  up  town,  that  if 
they  both  do  their  business  well,  and  do  not  quarrel,  there 
is  little  reason  why  they  should  not  both  go  their  own  way 
rejoicing,  and  like  each  other  or  not,  as  the  case  may  be." 

"  That  is  not  my  idea  of  marriage,"  said  Rose. 

"  It  was  not  mine  at  your  age,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  memory  of  this  incident  that 
prompted  Rose  to  remark  to  Mrs.  Mortimer,  when  the 
conversation  fell  flat  at  her  morning  call  which  found 
them  at  rehearsal  (for  somehow  the  conversation  would 
fall  flat,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  would  look  at  Amberley  with 
angry  glances,  Rose  could  not  imagine  why)  :  "  I  saw  Mr. 
Mortimer  at  your  house  the  other  day.  I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  a  husband,  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  blurted  out  poor 
Rose. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  actually  blushed. 

"  Indeed,  Rose,  I  fear  there  are  many  important  facts 
you  do  not  know  yet  Mr.  Mortimer  has  been  South." 

The  angry  flush  on  her  cheek  did  not  die  away,  and  the 
slight  curl  in  Arthur  Araberley's  lip  perhaps  deepened  it. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  hastened  to  the  rescue  by  asking  if  Mr. 
Mortimer's  health  was  better. 

"  No ;  he  still  has  his  dyspepsia ;  cannot  eat  anything. 
I  tell  him  that  he  is  too  devoted  to  money -making;  he 
ought  to  leave  business.  He  says  if  he  does  he  shall  die ; 
that  he  is  not  aware  of  anything  that  interests  him  but  the 
price  of  stocks,  and  what  he  calls  combinations." 

"  His  absence  put  down  the  price  of  '  Blank-paper  Tun- 
nel '  and  '  Red  Riff  Consolidated,'  "  said  Amberley. 

"How  does  your  play  progress?"  asked  Mrs.  Mortimer, 
rather  stiffly,  not  noticing  this  last  remark. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  76 

"  If  all  did  as  well  as  Miss  Chadwick,  it  would  go  ad- 
mirably. Dicky  Small  weed  and  Miss  Devine  cannot,  will 
not,  learn  their  parts,  however,"  said  Amberley. 

"  Miss  Devine  is  to  have  the  dressy  married-woman  part, 
I  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  Yes,  she  is  to  do  the  splendor  for  us — regular  pieces 
des  robes  splendor.  She  is  the  married  watering-place 
would-be-admired  woman,  who  is  to  oppress  Miss  Chad- 
wick  here,"  said  Amberley. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  now  had  a  chance  to  smile,  as  she  remem- 
bered Sidonie  Devine's  capabilities  that  way. 

"  When  is  the  first  public  rehearsal — that  is,  one  that  I 
can  see  ?"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer., 

"  We  shall  be  happy  to  greet  you  at  the  Union  League 
on  Wednesday  week,  at  three  in  the  afternoon,"  said  Am- 
berley ;  "  and  then  my  troubles  begin,  for  with  all  the  call- 
boys  in  the  world  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  my  troupe 
together." 

"  Let  me  help  you  drum  up  recruits,"  said  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, becoming  suddenly  amiable. 

"  Oh,  if  you  put  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  all  will  go 
well,"  said  Amberley,  with  great  animation.  "  If  you  will 
frighten  Dicky  Smallweed  out  of  his  boots,  and  let  him 
know  that  he  will  lose  the  part  if  he  does  not  appear 
promptly,  we  shall  be  in  your  everlasting  debt." 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  Dicky,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  Of  course  you  can  manage  everybody,"  said  Arthur. 

"How  are  Jack  Long  and  Fanny  Grey  doing?" 

"  Conventionally  well,  I  think.  I  have  not  had  them 
all  together  yet." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  looking  very  much  relieved, 
"  you  take  your  pupils  singly,  and  not  in  class  ?" 


76  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  The  more  important  characters,  yes.  Where  there  is 
a  subtle  part  to  be  played,  like  this  of  Miss  Chadwick's,  I 
give  attention  to  it,"  said  innocent  Amberley. 

"  And  I  am  such  a  little  fool,  too,  you  know,  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, and  as  ignorant  as  a  prairie-dog,"  said  Rose,  who  felt 
humble  just  then. 

"  Ignorant  with  a  vengeance,  Mrs.  Mortimer.  Why,  I 
happened  to  say '  Old  Tabby/  and  she  had  no  idea  what  I 
meant." 

Just  then  the  bell  rang  again,  and  Rourke,  who  appeared 
to  have  forgotten  his  instructions,  ushered  the  Honorable 
Hathorne  Mack  into  the  sacred  rehearsal  room. 

He  was  very  oily,  very  cordial,  very  dreadful ;  his  mouth 
bore  the  sad  insignia  of  the  American  habit ;  his  clothes 
appeared  to  have  been  thrown  at  him  several  seasons  ago. 
The  sloughing-off  time,  which  in  animals  occurs  periodi- 
cally, did  not  seem  to  pertain  to  Mack.  His  clothes  were 
not  perennial  or  deciduous. 

"  Well,  Miss  Rose,  you  and  I  have  got  to  take  a  ride  to- 
gether, I  expect.  Here's  a  letter  from  your  father,  saying, 
'  Have  you  been  good  to  my  little  gal,  Mack  ?  You  must 
call  often  and  see  her.'  I  should  have  been  here  a  great 
deal  oftener,  except  for  the  Blank-paper  Tunnel  business. 
I  have  got  to  get  some  of  your  New  York  Congressmen  to 
vote  for  it,  and  I  ain't  prepared  yet  to  pay  quite  as  much 
as  they  want." 

"Let  me  present  you  to  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan. 

'"  How  de  do,  marm  ?  Wife  of  the  King  of  Wall  Street, 
marm  ?  I  tell  you  Blank-paper  Tunnel  knows  him.  Sam 
Mortimer,  I  presume?  Yes?  First-rate  speculator,  your 
husband,  marm.  Proud  to  know  you." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  77 

"  Mr.  Amberley,  Mr.  Mack,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  who 
really  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her  guest. 

"  How  de  do,  sir  ?  In  politics  or  WaH  Street,  sir  ?  I'm 
considerable  mixed  up  in  both." 

"  Neither,  sir.  I  have  no  ambition  in  either  direction," 
said  Amberley. 

"Hain't  you  now?  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  sir. 
American  born  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  born  here,"  said  Amberley. 

"  Then  I  feel  more  than  sorry,  sir,  more  than  sorry  ;  for 
an  American  who  has  no  interest  in  politics  nor  railroads 
— or,  I  may  say,  railroads  as  connected  with  politics — 
misses  what  I  call  the  first  duty  of  a  citizen." 


XL 

MR.  MACK'S  call  prolonged  itself  until  Mrs.  Mortimer 
and  Amberley  took  their  leave.  Poor  Rose  was  crimson 
with  mortification.  She  saw  disgust  in  the  face  of  Amber- 
ley,  and  triumph  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Mortimer.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  never  raised  to  the  height  where 
she  would  be,  but  that  some  untoward  event  caused  her 
to  be  thrown  therefrom,  and  to  fall  again  into  sad  dis- 
grace. 

She  was  not  casuist  enough  to  know  why  she  felt  such  a 
pang  when  this  man  mentioned  her  father's  name.  She 
did  not  recognize,  as  Mrs.  Trevylyan  did,  the  utter  want 
of  moral  dignity  which  pervaded  her  father's  otherwise 
lovable  character.  He  had  lost  the  sense  of  distinction 
between  a  coarse  man  and  a  refined  one  in  his  rough- 


78  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

and-tumble  life.  Perhaps  he  never  had  it.  Some  men  are 
born  without  the  sense  of  selection. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  remembered  enough  of  her  brother's 
character  to  see  this  in  all  its  fulness,  but  what  could  she 
do? 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  stayed  an  hour,  growing 
more  disgusting  every  minute,  yet  Mrs.  Trevylyan  could 
not  deny  him  the  possession  of  very  strong  sense,  immense 
knowledge  of  mankind,  and  a  tremendous  belief  in  him- 
self. She  was  not  the  woman  to  underrate  these  powers. 

But  she  saved  Rose  by  her  tact  from  half  the  pain  by 
talking  to  him  herself  and  leading  his  coarse  eyes  away 
from  the  blushing  girl.  She  finally  looked  at  her  watch, 
and  sent  Rose  off  to  her  Italian  lesson. 

Mr.  Mack  seemed  a  little  annoyed  at  this,  but  took  oc- 
casion, with  an  eye  to  his  watch  also,  to  utilize  the  oppor- 
tunity, as  to  a  little  business  of  his  own. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Trevylyan,"  said  he,  "  I  find  you  are  a  re- 
markable clever  woman,  and  I  want  you  on  my  side.  I'm 
rather  fond  of  that  young  lady  that  has  just  left  the  room. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  mind  making  her  Mrs.  Mack. 
My  friend  Pascal  and  I  are  considerable  mixed  up  in  these 
stocks  and  mines,  and  I  hold  the  controlling  influence.  If 
I  marry  Rose,  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  Pascal,  and  he 
knows  it.  He  has  never  said  so  in  words,  but  we  under- 
stand each  other.  I've  been  a  widower  seven  years,  Mrs. 
Trevylyan,  and  no  two  people  ever  lived  happier  than 
Mrs.  Mack  and  I  did.  I  am  pretty  well  off,  you  may  be- 
lieve. Can  give  Rose  all  the  diamonds  and  horses  and 
Worth  gowns  that  she  wants ;  and  she  may  live  here,  or 
Washington,  or  St.  Louis,  just  as  she  wants  to.  Now  will 
you  pave  the  way  for  me  here?  You  are  a  good-looking 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  79 

woman  yourself,  and  I  should  think  you  might  be  looking 
round  for  another  husband ;  likely  too ;"  and  he  smiled  at 
his  own  delicate  badinage. 

"  Certainly  not,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  pale  with  sup- 
pressed rage.  "  Certainly  not  your  friend,  if  yon  propose 
to  marry  Rose !  The  difference  of  age  is  quite  enough  to 
deter  me  from  any  such  arrangement." 

"  I  ain't  so  old.  I  ain't  so  old  as  you  are  by  five  years," 
said  the  Hon.  Hathorne  Mack,  offended  deeply. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  stiffly;  "but  my 
brother  has  intrusted  his  daughter  to  me  with  every  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  her  studying  and  improving  her  mind. 
She  is  very  young  and  very  immature.  She  is  not  at  all 
ready  to  be  married  to  anybody." 

"  Oh,  that's  my  look-out,  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  I  don't  want 
a  learned  wife.  I  want  a  good-looking,  healthy  one.  I 
ain't  particular  about  her  being  any  better  educated  than 
Rose  is.  You  needn't  trouble  about  that." 

"  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  you.  I  was  thinking  of 
my  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  now  furious.  "  I  do  not 
think  she  loves  you  or  would  be  happy  with  you,  and  I 
certainly  shall  not  make  the  slightest  effort  to  present  the 
subject  to  her  mind." 

"  Then,  marm,  I'll  do  it  myself.  I  ain't  a  man  to  be 
thwarted.  I'll  send  a  telegram  to-day  to  Chadwick's  Falls, 
and  it  will  go  hard  if  I  don't  see  your  niece  with  her 
father's  blessing.  And  so  good-by,  ma'am.  Perhaps  you'll 
regret  offending  Hathorne  Mack." 

He  went  off,  breathing  fire  and  brimstone.  His  round 
bullet-head  seemed  to  grow  a  set  of  bristling  bayonets,  in- 
stead of  hair.  He  was  purple  with  anger.  He  descended 
the  steps,  saying,  with  certain  expletives  which  we  will 


80  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

omit,  "  If  Pascal  don't  sustain  me  in  this,  I'll  smash  him, 
blank  if  I  don't !" 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  did  not,  however,  get  time  to 
telegraph  about  love  matters  that  day,  for  Blank-paper 
Tunnel  was  in  a  bad  way  when  he  reached  Wall  Street. 
Cupid  gave  way  to  cupidity,  and  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
had  to  attend  to  his  pocket  rather  than  his  heart.  Mrs. 
Trevylyan  had,  however,  no  such  preoccupation.  She  was 
beforehand  with  her  telegram — a  fact  which  exercised  an 
important  influence  upon  the  future  of  her  niece. 

Meantime  Arthur  Amberley  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  a 
long  talk.  There  is  no  such  tyranny  as  that  which  a 
married  woman  holds  over  a  man  who  has  once  been  her 
admirer,  if  she  sees  in  him  the  slightest  wavering  in  the 
matter  of  a  rival.  Mrs.  Mortimer  was  altogether  too  great 
a  tactician  to  reproach  Amberley.  She  saw  that  he  was  an- 
noyed, and,  if  the  word  could  be  applied  to  so  polished  a 
cynic,  cross.  Her  business  was  to  soothe  him,  and  to  make 
herself  agreeable. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful  what  Mrs.  Trevylyan  has  under- 
taken ?"  said  she — "  not  only  this  pretty  unformed  girl, 
but  the  shocking  acquaintance  that  her  presence  entails. 
If  this  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  is  to  be  dragged  about, 
it  will  be  insupportable." 

"  Quite  so ;  but  what  has  he  to  do  with  it  all  ?"  asked 
Amberley. 

"  Oh,  he  is  a  sort  of  predestined  husband,  I  believe,  for 
Rose.  Jack  Townley  tells  me  that  he  is  the  capitalist  be- 
hind Mr.  Chadwick,  and  holds  that  gentleman's  fortunes 
in  his  hand.  They  have  something  going  on  in  Congress 
about  their  railroads.  Jack  Townley  knows  all  the  ins 
and  outs ;  he  will  tell  you." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  81 

"  Heavens  !  what  a  horrible  sacrifice !" 

u  I  do  not  believe  Rose  would  mind  it.  She  has  been 
brought  up  with  such  people,  and  she  has  no  abhorrence 
of  his  manners.  In  fact,  I  think  she  would  be  at  home 
with  such  a  man,  if  we  can  judge  by  her  behavior  at  my 
house ;  and  you  saw  her  at  the  ball  rush  across  the  room 
to  speak  to  Jack  Townley  !  There  can  be  no  native  refine- 
ment in  such  a  girl.  There  is  talent  and  beauty,  of  course, 
but  we  cannot  enamel  manners  on  a  Sappho  if  she  has  not 
native  refinement.  But  you  look  tired.  Suppose  we  take 
a  turn  around  the  Park?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Amberley,  who  was  more 
disturbed  than  he  usually  allowed  his  well-regulated  nature 
to  become. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  had  never  looked  prettier,  nor  had  she 
ever  been  more  calmly  and  gayly  agreeable.  She  was  mis- 
tress of  the  situation  again ;  and  to  the  polished  man  of 
the  world,  who  had  been  perhaps  led  away  for  a  moment 
by  a  pair  of  flashing  eyes,  a  bright  color,  a  sweet  breath, 
and  a  youthful  grace,  there  came  back  the  conviction  that, 
after  all,  the  consummate  grace  of  a  woman  of  the  world, 
who  could  never  offend  one's  taste,  was  the  safest  condi- 
ment in  the  great  mixture,  the  piece  de  resistance  of  life's 
feast. 

So  when  they  came  to  the  rehearsal,  at  the  old  Union 
League  Theatre — that  scene  of  so  many  charming  plays, 
that  delightful  little  temple  of  the  drama  where  New  York 
belles  have  often  essayed  the  portrayal  of  the  passion?,  and 
have  imitated  the  elegant  subterfuges  which  are  so  well 
enacted  in  daily  life — Rose  found  Amberley,  her  best 
friend,  her  instructor,  cold  and  unsympathetic.  He  was 
never  rude — that  was  not  in  his  nature.  But  Rose,  who 


82  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

was  what  the  Italians  so  well  call  simpatica,  missed  a  tone 
in  his  voice,  and  a  cordiality  in  his  manner.  It  was  to  be 
a  hard  day  for  poor  Rose.  Sidonie  Devine  scarcely  bowed 
to  her,  and  she  heard  that  destroyer  of  her  peace  say,  with 
ill-disguised  voice,  "  What,  the  decanter-breaker  has  ar- 
rived ?  Well,  let  us  look  out  for  everything  of  a  fragile 
nature." 

Fanny  Grey  had  taken  her  place  in  the  drawing-room 
scene,  and  was  rehearsing  somewhat  stiffly  the  flirtatious 
dialogue  with  Jack  Long,  so  that  poor  Rose  had  no  one  to 
appeal  to.  Harriet  Amberley  was  also  engrossed  with  her 
part,  and  Rose  felt  all  her  assumed  confidence  fall  from  her. 

When  her  turn  came,  she  stepped  upon  the  stage  and 
began  her  part. 

"Slower,  Miss  Chadwick,  slower,"  said  Arthur  Amber- 
ley,  waving  his  baton,  from  the  prompter's  chair ;  "  you  are 
too  fast." 

Rose  began  again,  and,  knowing  her  lines,  went  on  a  lit- 
tle better. 

The  scene  proceeded  between  herself  and  Sidonie  Devine. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Sidonie  Devine  did  vastly  bet- 
ter than  Rose.  No  palpitations  disturbed  that  cold  heart 
and  that  calculating  brain.  She  saw  and  enjoyed  the  con- 
fusion, distress,  and  fear  of  poor  Rose.  She  was  mistress 
of  the  stage  business,  but  Rose  was  awkward,  and  tipped 
over  a  table  as  she  left  the  room. 

The  rehearsal  went  on.  Harriet  Amberley  went  through 
her  part  badly,  and  not  at  all  to  the  liking  of  her  brother. 

But  Dicky  Stnallweed  was  admirable;  as  glib  and  as 
audacious,  as  dissipated  and  as  rowdy,  as  insolent  a  young 
yachting,  racing,  betting  man,  as  could  be.  He  had  a  part 
to  his  liking,  and  he  did  it  well. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  83 

In  the  second  scene,  Rose,  inspired  by  her  part,  did  bet- 
ter for  the  first  few  lines,  and  even  brought  a  round  of  ap- 
plause from  the  few  spectators.  She  was  going  on  very 
well,  when  unluckily  she  espied,  in  the  front  row  of  seats, 
her  old  abhorrence,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,  looking 
at  her  with  his  greedy  red  eyes. 

From  that  moment  all  her  composure  left  her.  She 
stuttered,  stammered,  and  broke  down.  There  was  almost 
reason  for  Sidonie  Devine  to  say,  audibly, 

"  Why  are  we  all  made  to  suffer  by  this  woman's  out- 
rageous blundering  ?" 

Rose  left  the  stage,  her  part  was  over,  and,  as  she 
emerged  from  the  dark  staircase  which  led  down  into 
one  of  the  greenrooms,  she  met  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack,  who  held  out  his  hands  to  her. 

Hysterical,  no  doubt,  from  the  excitement  and  the  dis- 
grace of  having  failed,  she  gave  a  little  scream,  and  fled 
from  him.  No  gallery  of  Florence,  no  old  palace  of  Venice, 
ever  had  a  more  dark,  mysterious,  and  dramatic  congerie 
of  black  staircases,  and  of  passages  which  led  no  one  knew 
whither,  or  veiled  doors,  or  opportune  closets  in  which  a 
woman  could  hide,  than  had  the  old  Union  League  Theatre. 
Indeed,  it  was  said  of  it  that  every  year  skeletons  were 
found  there  of  those  unfortunates  who  had  strayed  away 
the  year  before,  trying  to  find  their  way  out.  Rose  dashed 
down  a  flight  of  stairs,  shutting  a  door  behind  her,  and 
found  herself  in  a  cold  and  lonely  vestibule.  The  outside 
door  opened  as  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and — 
Jack  Townley  entered. 

"  Oh,  save  me  from  that  man  !"  said  she,  in  a  tone  which 
would  have  made  the  fortune  of  an  actress. 

"  Who — what,  Miss  Rose  ?"  said  Jack  Townley. 


84  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBE. 

"  The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  this  play?"  said  Jack,  who 
was  going  up  to  rehearse  his  short  and  unimportant  part. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  saw  him  in  the  audience,  and  he 
came  into  the  greenroom  after  me,"  said  Rose,  simply. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  he  is  ' after  you,'  Miss  Rose.  Now  I 
remember,  I  saw  him  with  Mrs.  Mortimer  in  her  carriage 
this  morning.  I  wondered  why.  She  must  have  brought 
him  to  the  rehearsal.  Well,  stocks  do  make  strange  bed- 
fellows," said  Jack,  thinking  of  Mr.  Mortimer  and  Blank- 
paper  Tunnel.  "  I'll  go  and  see  if  the  coast  is  clear,"  said 
Townley,  kindly.  "  You'll  catch  your  death  here,  Miss  Rose." 

He  came  back  in  a  moment.  The  report  was  favorable, 
and  Rose  crept  up  to  the  now  deserted  greenroom,  where 
she  sat  shivering  and  weeping  until  she  was  called,  this 
time  by  Arthur  Amberley  himself,  for  the  last  act. 

"  What  is  the  trouble,  Miss  Rose  ?"  he  asked,  kindly,  as 
he  entered  the  greenroom. 

"  I  was  frightened  and  shocked  at  seeing  that  dreadful 
man,  who  persecutes  me,"  said  Rose,  "  and  I  feel  so  alone ! 
so  alone !"  said  she,  weeping  afresh. 

"Do  you  really  wish  to  get  rid  of  the  Honorable  Ha- 
thorne Mack  ?"  said  Amberley. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Amberley,  if  you  would  rid  me  of  that  man  ! 
I  can  never  play  if  he  is  in  the  house.  I  can  stand  the 
ridicule  of  Miss  Devine  and  the  contempt  of  all  these  other 
fashionable  people,  while  I  have  a  few  friends !  I  dare  say 
I  deserve  it  all.  I  have  no  polish.  I  see  every  day  how 
utterly  deficient  I  am  in  proper  manners — the  manners  of 
society.  But  I  cannot  live  if  that  dreadful  man  follows 
me  with  his  coarse  admiration.  Save  me  from  him,  Mr. 
Amberley !" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  85 

Alas,  Mrs.  Mortimer !  your  well-laid  schemes  were  cob- 
webs, they  were  swept  away  by  one  touch  of  nature,  one 
fresh  and  truthful  outburst  of  the  heart.  The  best-formed 
device  of  falsehood  and  of  cunning  fraud,  built  up  patient- 
ly and  well  with  infinite  trouble,  was  washed  out  by  a  few 
tears  which  fell  on  a  damask  cheek  out  of  a  pair  of  dark 
eyes,  and  trembled  on  the  lashes  thereof. 


XII. 

"  THE  stage  waits."  This  call  had  been  uttered  two  or 
three  times  before  Amberley  reappeared  with  Miss  Chad- 
wick.  Indeed,  Harriet  Amberley  had  gone  down  to  see 
what  was  the  matter. 

"  Miss  Chadwick  lost  her  way  in  descending  to  the  green- 
room, and  I  found  her  m  the  vestibule,"  said  Jack  Town- 
ley,  in  an  explanatory  voice,  as  the  others  spoke  of  her  not 
being  ready. 

Rose  took  up  her  part  with  a  trembling  voice,  but  with 
one  not  unmusical.  As  the  play  went  on,  and  she  had  to 
respond  to  the  coarse  attacks  of  her  mistress  and  enemy, 
her  voice  grew  clearer ;  she  seemed,  indeed,  to  become  the 
indignant  and  the  insulted  girl  of  the  play.  Still,  she  did 
not  yet  play  well.  Agitation  of  any  sort  is  "bad  for  the 
amateur  actor.  The  most  perfect  coolness  and  self-posses- 
sion are  needed,  and  one  must  do  what  seems  the  most  im- 
probable and  remote  thing,  if  one  would  fit  in  to  the  false 
perspective  of  the  stage. 

But  the  players  all  noticed  one  great  phenomenon.  Ar- 
thur Amberley  had  become  gay,  good-natured,  and  interest- 


86  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

ed.  The  audience  had  mostly  gone ;  there  was  a  vacancy 
where  Mrs.  Mortimer  and  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack 
had  been  sitting ;  and  only  one  gentleman  in  a  paletot  was 
visible  in  the  back  seats. 

When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  this  gentleman  came  for- 
ward and  took  Rose  by  the  hand. 

•"May  I  walk  home  with  you?"  he  asked. 

It  was  her  excellent  friend  Professor  Paton,  who  always 
gave  her  strength  and  composure. 

"  You  all  did  very  badly  to-day,"  said  he. 

"  I  am  sure  /  did,"  said  Rose. 

"No  worse  than  the  rest.  You  have  not  learned  tenue 
en  scene"  said  he,  " any  of  you.  You  ought  to  rehearse 
every  day  for  six  weeks." 

"  Oh  dear,"  said  Rose ;  "  I  do  not  call  it  playing  ;  I  call 
it  work." 

"Yes,  the  very  hardest  work,  I  think,"  said  Professor 
Paton.  "I  wonder  people  amuse  themselves  with  doing 
badly  what  so  many  people  work  years  just  to  learn  how 
to  do  well.  Come  to  me  to-morrow  and  rehearse,  Miss 
Chadwick." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Rose. 

Arthur  Amberley  had  become  the  most  amiable  of  men 
suddenly,  and  it  was  thus  commented  upon : 

"  What  has  happened  to  old  Amberley  ?"  said  Jack  Long 
to  Jack  Townley,  as  they  walked  up  after  one  of  the  re- 
hearsals. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  has  made  money.  I  saw 
him  walking  with  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack." 

"No  doubt.  Well,  that  is  a  thing  to  make  any  man 
cheerful.  By-the-way,  how  well  the  little  Chadwick  did 
to-night !" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  87 

"  Yes,  she  gave  it  back  to  Sidonie  very  aptly.  No  more 
chaff  about  claret-spillers  on  the  part  of  Sidonie.  She  has 
met  her  match." 

The  great  business  of  society  went  on,  although  "  the 
play  was  the  thing."  Balls,  dinners,  rides,  teas,  matinees, 
and  wedding  receptions  were  in  order,  and  Rose  attended 
them  all. 

Sir  Lytton  Leycester  was  as  amiable  and  agreeable  as 
possible,  showing  Rose  great  attention. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  one  old  tabby  at  a  ball  to  another, 
"  what  is  the  secret  power  attached  to  that  dreadful 
girl." 

"I  agree  with  you  —  what  is  it?"  said  another  tabby. 
"If  the  days  of  love  -  philters  had  not  passed,  I  should 
think  she  possessed  one.  Why,  you  know  all  about  her, 
don't  you  ?  Her  mother  was  an  actress  in  San  Francisco." 

"  Ho !"  said  tabby  No.  1 ;  "  that  is  the  reason  why  she 
acts  so  well,  then,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  Pascal  Chadwick  is  a  Western  rogue,  who 
makes  a  great  deal  of  money.  Mr.  Mortimer  says  he  is 
worth  ten  millions." 

"  Then  I  should  think  he  would  dress  his  daughter  bet- 
ter. Why,  that  muslin  never  cost  fifty  cents  a  yard. 
Now  I  pay  Connelly  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for 
every  dress  Delia  wears." 

"  And  I  pay  Josephine  Egan  two  and  three  hundred  for 
every  dress  my  girls  have." 

"  Then  she  does  such  ht>rrid  things !  Why,  I  heard  that 
at  Mrs.  Mortimer's  dinner  she  got  up  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  brandishing  a  tomahawk,  and  broke  all 
the  Sevres  vases." 

"And  she  has  broken  another  idol  of  Mrs.  Mortimer's 


88  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

too — don't  you  know  ?  She  has  swept  Arthur  Amberley 
right  off  his  feet." 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  you  don't  say  so  !  Well,  when  an 
old  fellow  falls  in  love,  it  is  a  desperate  fall  indeed.  Now 
can  you  see  anything  in  the  girl  ?" 

"She  has  a  goodish  complexion  —  but  so  have  other 
people.  People  say  she  paints — all  Western  women  do. 
Do  you  remember  Sallie  Stark  ?  How  she  did  put  on  the 
red  and  white !  Now  see  there !  Sir  Lytton  Leyccster  is 
flirting  most  dreadfully  with  her." 

"And  have  you  seen  how  she  manages  the  two  Jacks — 
Townley  and  Long  ?  Somebody  said  she  had  '  two  Jacks 
and  the  game.'  Well,  I  do  not  think  much  of  Miss  Chad- 
wick,  or  of  Mrs.  Trevylyan  for  introducing  a  Western  ad- 
venturess of  doubtful  birth  here." 

"  Nor  I  much  of  Mrs.  Mortimer  for  bringing  her  to  these 
exclusive  balls.  However,  New  York  society  is  getting 
very  mixed — very,  very  mixed." 

The  last  speaker,  who  represented  the  latest,  lowest,  and 
most  reprehensible  muddy  particle  of  mixture,  drew  herself 
up,  very,  very  indignant. 

"  Well,  there  now !"  said  the  first  tabby ;  "  Mrs.  Morton 
Burnie  has  got  hold  of  her.  That  means  that  Miss  Chad- 
wick  is  a  lion." 

"And  I  am  sure  all  her  sins  will  be  expiated  if  Mrs. 
Morton  Burnie  has  found  her  out.  She  wishes  her  to 
come  to  one  of  her  dreadful  parties." 

"  Oh  yes ;  she  wants  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  I  suppose, 
and  Miss  Chadwick  is  the  bait." 

"  And  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  is  looking  after  the  ten  mill- 
ions. Englishmen  are  so  mercenary ;  they  only  demand 
that  you  should  have  money,  no  matter  how  you  get  it." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  89 

And  so  the  two  Mrs.  Candours  picked  their  bones,  and 
picked  them  clean. 

Arthur  Amberley  gave  the  famous  dinner  which  had 
been  so  much  talked  of  (he  did  not  often  entertain  at  his 
own  house)  to  the  members  of  his  dramatic  company. 
Only  Mrs.  Trevylyan  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  were  asked,  they 
undertaking  to  chaperon  the  young  ladies  and  to  receive 
for  him,  Harriet  being  rather  frightened  at  the  idea  of  so 
large  a  dinner. 

Rose  thought  she  had  never  seen  a  more  enchanting 
hostess  than  her  plain  friend,  so  cordial,  so  easy,  so  unob- 
trusive; but  then  she  was  partial  to  Harriet.  The  house 
was  a  double  one,  broad,  old-fashioned,  in  an  unfashionable 
street,  but  with  an  air  of  bien  etre  about  it  which  charmed 
Rose.  Wood  fires  burned  in  all  the  old  fireplaces,  and  a 
broad,  handsome  staircase  went  up  grandly  through  the 
large  hall.  It  was  of  mahogany,  almost  as  black  as  ebony. 
Nothing  but  a  few  rich  portieres  had  been  added  (to  shut 
off  the  draught  at  the  wide  dark  shining  doors)  since  the 
days  of  the  old  Amberleys,  who  had  been  great  people  in 
their  day.  There  was  a  wealth  of  brass  about  the  fire- 
places, and  the  doors  and  furniture  were  quite  enough  to 
break  the  heart  of  Sypher,  or  any  other  collector.  There 
were  fine  old  clocks,  and  a  real  "eight  day"  in  the  hall 
which  told  the  tides  at  Amsterdam.  There  was  a  spinet, 
a  harp,  and  a  six-legged  piano,  which  had  belonged  to  some . 
musical  ancestress,  and  pictures  everywhere.  China  col- 
lected a  hundred  years  ago,  cabinets  from  Florence,  Venice, 
Rome,  brought  by  the  Amberleys  themselves,  all,  all  told 
of  the  wealth,  education,  and  taste  of  two  or  three  genera- 
tions. 

"  No  nouveaux  riches  here,  Miss  Rose,"  whispered  Jack 


90  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Townley,  as  he  spoke  to  her,  after  she  had  bowed  to  Mr. 
and  Miss  Amberley. 

"  Oh,  how  comfortable  it  all  is !"  said  Rose,  as  she  sank 
into  a  great  arm-chair. 

,  Arthur  took  Mrs.  Trevylyan  in  to  dinner,  Jack  Townley 
followed  with  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  Harriet  Amberley  took 
in  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  as  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
guests.  Rose  felt  a  little  disappointed,  as  Dicky  Small- 
weed  only  was  left  for  her,  but  she  was  rewarded  by  find- 
ing herself  on  Mr.  Amberley's  left  hand. 

At  her  plate  lay  the  most  beautiful  bouquet  of  great 
pink  roses.  Indeed,  there  were  no  other  flowers  on  the 
table  but  the  "  Gloire  de  Paris,"  the  most  delightful  of 
roses.  They  were  everywhere. 

"Arthur,  your  room  is  fragrant  as  '  Bendemeer's  stream,' " 
said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"Rose,  Rose,"  said  Arthur.  "This  is  a  dinner  to  a 
Rose,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  will  spoil  her,  Arthur,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  She  cannot  be  spoiled,"  said  he. 

Well,  Dicky  Smallweed  was  not  so  disagreeable  either. 
He  was  quick  to  see  which  way  the  wind  blew,  and  he 
knew  that  in  this  house  it  was  his  role  to  be  polite  to  Miss 
Chadwick. 

He  told  her  all  the  mots  from  the  club,  all  the  good 
stories,  all  the  new  engagements,  what  Tupperton  Tons  had 
said  at  the  Union  League,  what  Chaffs  had  said  at  the 
Union.  He  gave  her  a  description  of  the  Lotus  Club, 
where  the  wits  meet,  and  the  Art  League,  where  the  young 
geniuses  quarrel.  Indeed,  as  a  man  about  town,  Dicky 
Smallweed,  behind  a  blonde  mustache  of  ferocious  dimen- 
sions, seemed  to  loom  up  suddenly  into  great  importance. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  91 

Meantime  Fanny  Grey  was  near  Rose,  giving  her  kindly 
glances  and  smiles,  and  Sidonie  Devine  and  the  pink-eyed 
girl  were  very  far  off;  so  she  enjoyed  her  dinner. 

Then  what  china !  Real  old  blue,  the  hest  of  Lowestoft, 
Worcester,  and  real  Dresden,  not  bought  yesterday  either ; 
fine  Queen  Anne  silver,  superb  in  weight  and  finish,  and 
beautiful  rich  damask  which  had  a  look  as  of  satin. 
And  what  a  dinner !  All  the  men  were  silent  the  early 
part  of  the  dinner,  for  Arthur  Amberley's  plats  could  not 
be  lightly  passed  over.  And  his  wines !  Each  wine  was 
a  rarity,  good,  sound,  and,  if  proper,  ancient. 

"  What  is  thine  age  ?"  might  have  been  asked  of  the 
Madeira,  as  it  was  of  Juliet,  and  the  answer  would  have 
been  quite  as  satisfactory,  though  numbering  rather  more 
years. 

Strawberries  in  midwinter,  peaches,  artichokes  from  Al- 
giers, grapes  and  pears  from  California ;  and  one  little  bas- 
ket was  set  before  Rose  which  brought  the  color  high  up 
into  her  cheek. 

"  Grapes  from  Chadwick's  Falls,"  was  the  legend  on  the 
handle. 

"  And  did  you  send  for  these  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  I  did,"  said  Mr.  Amberley.  "  I  telegraphed  to  your 
father  two  weeks  ago,  and  he  has  sent  me  grapes  enough 
to  last  me  a  lifetime ;  besides  that,  a  pipe  or  two  of  excel- 
lent wine.  Really,  Rose,  you  Western  people  are  great 
magnificos." 

"  And  some  of  you  Eastern  people  are  very  kind,"  said 
Rose,  blushing. 

This  little  story  ran  down  the  table  through  the  leaky 
lips  of  Dicky  Smallweed. 

"  He  has  sent  to  Chadwick's  Falls  for  some  of  her  own 


92  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

grapes,"  said  Jack  Townley,  in  a  loud  voice.  "Really, 
Arthur,  you  outdo  Heliogabalus." 

The  grapes  were  passed  around,  and  pronounced  excel- 
lent. Everybody  liked  them  but  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

She  broke  off  a  little  bunch,  but  left  them  scarcely  tasted 
on  her  plate. 

"I  never  can  eat  these  Western  grapes,"  said  she  to 
Jack  Townley.  "They  are  crude,  like  the  people." 

"  Sour  grapes,"  thought  Townley.  "  Perhaps  so,  Mrs. 
Mortimer."  But  he  did  not  say  all  that  he  thought.  Sly 
Jack. 


XUI. 

PROFESSOR  PATON  worked  hard  over  his  pupil.  He  saw 
in  her  the  result  of  that  neglect  which  has  damped  the 
success  of  many  a  transplanted  Rose.  He  had  found,  even 
fifteen  miles  from  the  City  Hall,  a  family  of  intelligent 
girls,  who  had  asked  him  for  a  book  of  etiquette  while  he 
was  teaching  them  Shakespeare.  Etiquette,  that  conven- 
tional way  of  doing  things,  is  a  subject  of  curiosity  to  all 
the  untaught. 

Professor  Paton  knew  that  to  many  of  his  pupils  out- 
side the  pale  of  society  the  doings  of  society  were  the  most 
interesting  subjects  upon  which  he  could  chat,  and,  although 
he  was  no  gossip,  he  often  amused  these  intelligent  girls 
by  describing  the  dinners  to  which  he  occasionally  went — 
the  elegancies  of  that  world  to  them  so  far  off,  but  so 
amusing. 

He  had  travelled  all  over  the  great  country  which  we 
call  America  or  the  United  States  indiscriminate^,  and  he 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  93 

knew  that  the  sort  of  ignorance  which  Rose  displayed  was 
far  more  general  than  society  people  suppose.  Table  eti- 
quette, table  manners,  although  a  few  people  may  not 
think  so  who  happen  to  know  all  about  them,  are  not  sub- 
jects of  universal  inspiration.  (A  learned  professor,  not  a 
hundred  years  ago,  asked  a  lady  out  of  which  glass  he 
should  drink  his  sherry,  and  out  of  which  his  champagne. 
Preferring  the  sherry,  he  had  poured  it  into  the  large 
glass  intended  for  the  champagne.)  Rose  was  betrayed  by 
her  impulsiveness,  a  native  peculiarity,  as  Professor  Paton 
knew,  which  was  against  her  in  a  society  which  demands  a 
quiet,  impassive  smoothness  of  demeanor. 

But  the  learned  Professor  Paton  had  not  studied  alone 
Shakespeare's  heroines.  He  had  studied  many  a  Rosalind 
and  Portia  in  private  life,  and  he  believed  that  he  knew 
genuineness.  He  saw  in  Rose  a  sweet  and  genuine  charac- 
ter. Behind  the  flashing  eyes  and  burning  cheeks  of  this 
young  girl — who  could  not  keep  the  eloquent  blood  from 
speaking  appreciation  of  the  sorrows  of  Lear,  or  the  weird 
visions  of  Macbeth — he  thought  he  saw  the  divine  fire. 
He  had  always  delighted  in  her  obedience  and  her  efforts 
to  learn.  Already  her  Western  burr  had  begun  to  dis- 
appear. She  now  rolled  her  "  r  "  in  the  middle  of  a  word, 
as  French  people  do,  giving  her  pronunciation  distinctness, 
but  she  did  not  put  the  unnecessary  letter  on  the  end  of 
her  words.  She  was  full  of  her  part  in  the  private 
theatricals,  too,  and  that  gave  her  a  still  greater  interest  in 
the  study  of  elocution. 

The  great  evening  of  the  play  came,  and  the  Union 
League  Theatre  was  full  of  the  expectant  public.  Seats 

had  been  sold  at  five  dollars  a  ticket,  and  it  was  whispered 

7 


94  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

that  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  had  bought  the  two  front  rows. 
These  social  affairs  always  command  a  tremendous  audience 
in  New  York.  Perhaps  they  do  everywhere,  as  each  one 
is  anxious  to  hear  how  Sally  and  Margaret  and  Jane  "  do 
their  part,"  and  even  those  who  are  not  successful  give  the 
town  something  to  talk  about  as  well  as  those  who  are. 
The  very  pretty  toilets  of  an  amateur  actress  who  does 
not  care  how  much  she  spends  on  the  dresses,  which  would 
swallow  up  the  earnings  of  a  stock  actress  for  a  year  or 
two,  are  also  attractive,  and  therefore  private  theatricals, 
however  stupid  and  however  bad,  are  always  well  attended. 

But  Arthur  Amberley's  theatricals  were  not  bad ;  he  had 
taken  extraordinary  pains. 

Sidonie  had  thought  very  little  of  the  play  or  its  general 
effect.  She  only  knew  that  she  was  to  dress  well  and 
abase  Miss  Chadwick,  and  these  were  two  passions  of  her 
soul.  She  had  only  generally  observed  Rose  as  an  awk- 
ward and  verdant  personage,  whose  faults  would,  she  was 
sure,  obscure  the  faint  glimmering  of  sympathy  which  the 
governess  was  to  invoke.  The  play,  she  thought,  rested 
with  Fanny  Grey,  whose  love  episode  was  very  pretty,  and 
whose  social  position  and  fine  gowns  made  her  success  (for 
success  it  was  sure  to  be)  palatable  to  Sidonie.  So  that 
"  her  set "  won,  Sidonie  could  forgive  success. 

But  after  the  somewhat  lukewarm  applause  to  the  gen- 
teel mediocrity  with  which  every  one  played  had  subsided, 
Sidonie  entered  upon  her  great  scene  with  Rose. 

A  burst  of  applause  greeted  Rose  as  she  entered,  in  a 
plain  merino  which  fitted  her  slender  figure  marvellously, 
and  whose  gray  tone  threw  out  her  bright  color  most 
becomingly. 

She  stood  quite  still  as  Sidonie,  in  her  character  as  the 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  95 

vulgar  belle  of  the  watering-place,  admonished  her  govern- 
ess not  to  try  to  attract  the  admiring  glances  of  the  gentle- 
men, but  to  stay  away  from  the  piazza. 

When  Rose  answered,  it  was  in  a  sweet,  clear,  full  voice 
that  had  no  ungraceful  inflections ;  it  was  another  speech 
from  that  which  she  had  brought  from  Chadwick's  Falls. 

Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  the  audience  that  the  gray 
figure  was  the  figure  of  the  play.  All  the  rest  were  but 
the  "  trappings  and  the  suits  of  " — fashion.  Pretty  situa- 
tions of  joy,  light  gossip,  and  love,  all  had  trooped  across 
the  mimic  stage  in  proper  conventional  array ;  the  heart 
was  silent;  no  angel  had  yet  come  to  trouble  the  waters. 
But  when  the  young  girl,  abused,  misunderstood,  and 
sorrowful,  stood  alone  before  them  to  be  browbeaten,  then 
the  heart  beat  loudly,  then  the  voice  of  nature  spoke. 

And  in  the  last  scene,  when  the  brutal  woman  referred 
to  the  poor  girl's  lost  father,  then  did  the  answer  come, 
swift  and  terrible. 

Rose  became  a  great  actress,  all  unknown  to  herself. 

"You  speak  of  my  father,  madam;  you  refer  to  his 
calamities  " — the  play  went  on — "  you  say  that  I  may  have 
inherited  his  misfortunes.  Yes,  I  have ;  but,  alas !  not  his 
virtues  nor  his  forbearance.  Fate  was  cruel  to  the  man  of 
genius  and  to  the  man  of  honor,  and  he  bore  her  assaults 
with  true  courage.  He  did  not  turn  upon  his  detractors  ; 
he  spoke  ill  of  no  one.  But  his  daughter  has  not  inherited 
his  patience.  Madam,  I  renounce  your  service,  and  retire 
from  it.  None  but  a  vulgar  woman  could  have  so  insulted 
an  unprotected  girl ;  none  but  a  heartless  fiend  could  have 
unearthed  her  dead  father.  The  children  of  such  mothers 
as  you  are  should  grow  up  murderers.  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  their  education.  Sorry  am  I  for  them  in  their 


96  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

hour  of  innocence.  If  their  mother  can  speak  as  you  have 
done  to  a  motherless  girl,  what  sympathy  will  she  have 
with  them  in  their  hour  of  need  ?  Take  back  your  patron- 
age, your  false  and  cruel  assumption  of  assistance.  The 
world  is  wide  ;  there  will  be  found  a  home  wherein  I  can 
earn  my  bread.  I  do  not  need  you." 

And  the  amateur  actress  sank  down,  with  real  tears  rain- 
ing over  her  cheeks,  on  a  low  footstool,  in  an  attitude  so 
unconscious  and  so  graceful  that  Rachel  might  have  envied 
it,  to  hear  that  wild,  that  tumultuous  applause  which  has  a 
music  in  it  like  the  sound  of  a  whirlwind  over  the  trees  of 
a  forest. 

"  Wonderful !  Clara  Morris  could  not  have  done  better. 
Splendid  !  And  how  disgusted  Sidonie  looks !" 

"  Well,  her  mother  was  an  actress,  you  know,"  whispered 
the  lady  of  the  ballroom. 

"  Her  mother  happened  to  be  my  sister,  and  was  not  an 
actress,"  said  a  venerable  gentleman  in  white  necktie  and 
spectacles,  looking  at  his  voluble  neighbor. 

"  Who  is  that?"  whispered  the  lady. 

"  Oh  dear !  it  is  President  Williams,  of  Charpentier  Col- 
lege," said  the  other. 

"  You  never  know  whom  you  are  sitting  next,"  said  the 
first  lady. 

When  Rose  reached  the  greenroom  she  was  almost  in 
hysterics. 

Fanny  Grey  put  her  soft  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her. 
"  You  are  a  great  actress,  dear,"  said  she.  We  are  all  pup- 
pets beside  you.  See,  I  have  cried  until  my  stage  rouge  is 
all  in  streaks.  Oh,  Rose,  it  is  a  great  privilege  to  have 
genius !  You  have  got  it.  It  comes  to  you — this  power  ; 
you  do  not  have  to  seek  it ;  it  is  yours  already ;"  and  this 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  97 

generous,  lovely  daughter  of  luxury  and  conventionality, 
this  girl  whom  fashion  had  not  injured,  calmed  and  soothed 
the  poor  excited  child. 

When  Harriet  Amberley  got  through  her  scene,  she  too 
came  to  kiss  and  congratulate  Rose,  and  wisely  endeavored 
to  calm  her  down  for  her  last  scene. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Amberley  is  pleased  ?"  said  Rose. 

"My  brother?  He  is  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,"  said 
Harriot.  "  Now,  Rose,  whatever  happens,  do  not  lose 
your  self-possession.  Remember  you  must  play  your  part 
to  the  end." 

It  was  difficult  for  Rose  to  obey  this  injunction,  par- 
ticularly as  Sidonie  forgot  her  part,  thus  putting  Rose  out. 
She,  however,  did  her  bitter  enemy  a  great  service  by,  in 
her  character  of  governess,  almost  upper  servant,  going 
over  and  picking  up  her  gloves,  which  Sidonie  had  dropped, 
throwing  in  a  bit  of  stage-business  which  was  not  in  the 
play,  and  thus  giving  Sidonie  time  to  recover  herself — an 
act  which  went  to  the  heart  of  every  amateur  player,  for 
who  does  not  remember  the  cold  chills,  the  agony  of  sus- 
pense, which  any  interruption  of  the  stage-business  creates 
in  the  bosom  of  the  inexperienced  aspirant  to  dramatic 
success  ? 

When  the  play  was  ended,  the  stage  was  covered  with 
bouquets.  All  were  remembered,  but  Rose  had  the  pretti- 
est basket  of  orchids  from  Sir  Lytton,  and  the  finest  bunch 
of  roses  from  Mr.  Amberley.  She  was  loudly  called  for 
after  the  curtain  fell.  Sidonie  had  refused  to  accede  to 
Mr.  Amberley's  request  that  they  should  all  bow  to  the 
audience,  and  had  sulkily  gone  home. 

The  calls  increased  in  intensity,  and  Fanny  Grey  took 
Rose  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  on  herself  before  the  curtain. 


98  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

There  they  stood,  the  wild  flower  and  the  cultivated  one, 
two  young  and  beautiful  women,  near  in  character,  for 
both  were  sound  and  true,  and  no  one  could  say  which  was 
the  sweeter.  With  their  graceful,  grateful  courtesies  the 
play  ended. 

"I  shall  immediately  take  Wallack's  Theatre  for  a 
matinee,  and  bring  out  my  company,  especially  my  new 
star,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  as  he  welcomed  them  all  at  a 
supper. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  little  too  tragic  for  private  theatricals," 
said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  who,  however,  was  in  very  high — per- 
haps assumed — spirits. 

"That  you  owe  to  Miss  Chadwick's  acting,"  said  Mr. 
Amberley.  "  She  is  one  of  your  successes.  Do  you  re- 
member when  you  asked  me  to  take  her  around  your  par- 
lors?" 

"  Yes.  How  like  a  savage  she  looked  that  evening !" 
said  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  I  did  not  think  so,"  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  Simply 
unconventional  in  dress  and  manner — not  vulgar ;  that  is 
a  very  different  thing." 

"  I  wonder  how  much  of  etiquette  is  indigenous  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"  It  is  all  arbitrary,"  said  Amberley.  "  But  she  is  catch- 
ing it  quickly." 

"  If  we  were  to  write  out  the  story  of  Rose,  it  would 
seem  improbable,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  looking  at  her  as 
she  sat  on  a  distant  sofa,  holding  a  glass  of  lemonade  high 
in  one  hand,  as  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  and  Jack  Townley 
were  talking  to  her. 

"  Yes,  any  truth  seems  glaringly  improbable  when  it  is 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  99 

written  out ;  but  you  and  I  remember  the  beautiful  daugh- 
ters of  a  stage-driver  who  became  baronesses  and  countesses, 
and  we  saw  somewhat  of  Rose's  story  in  theirs.  I  also  re- 
member a  young  girl,  now  Lady  Somebody,  whose  faux 
pas  surpassed  those  of  your  protegee.  '  What  is  grace  but 
culture  entering  the  hands  and  feet  ?'  says  Emerson.  I  can 
tell  him  it  is  the  dancing-master,  the  dressmaker,  the  school- 
master, the  contact  with  society,  the  early  training  of  the 
mother,  the  atmosphere  of  a  refined  home.  It  is  all  this. 
And  as  every  society  has  certain  arbitrary  distinctions 
and  observances  which  are  entirely  conventional,  a  girl 
must  be  '  learned  in  her  surroundings,'  or  she  will  commit 
mistakes.  No  native  refinement  prevents  the  commitment 
of  a  social  sin,  which  had  no  reason  for  being  a  sin  except 
that  it  was  the  whim  of  some  queen,  or  some  king  per- 
haps, a  hundred  years  ago." 

"  She  has  captured  Leycester,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  look- 
ing furtively  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye. 

Amberley  looked  across  the  room  with  a  not  too  pleased 
expression.  "  Well,  the  fashion  is  not  unknown,  and  is 
growing,"  said  he.  "  Betty  dearly  loved  a  lord.  They  have 
a  value  historical  and  personal,  these  men  with  handles  to 
their  names.  Americans  are  accused,  rightfully  or  wrong- 
fully, of  carrying  matters  to  extremes.  Perhaps  it  is  des- 
tined that  England  shall  reconquer  us,  and  avenge  Yorktown. 
It  is  a  sort  of  Roman-Sabine  way  of  doing  things,  however, 
this  coming  over  and  taking  all  our  beauties.  I  am  emi- 
nently conservative,  as  you  know,  and  prefer  that  American 
girls  should  marry  Americans.  I  like  Henry  James,  Jr.'s  bru- 
tality to  all  young  Englishmen ;  he  makes  them  desperately 
in  love  with  American  girls,  and  the  American  girls  give  them 
the  mitten  with  such  admirable  and  improbable  patriotism." 


100  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Perhaps,  as  Thackeray  says,  the  wicked  lords  have  all 
the  money,  and  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "  But  I 
assure  you  Sir  Lytton  is  in  earnest." 


XIV. 

"  Now,  if  you  please,  Miss  Rose,  isn't  truth  stranger  than 
fiction  ?"  said  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  one  fine  morning,  as  he 
stepped  into  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  pretty  parlor.  "  Isn't  truth 
stranger  than  fiction  ?"  he  went  on,  fumbling  in  his  pock- 
ets for  a  letter  which  he  could  not  find.  "Do  you  re- 
member, Miss  Rose,  that  we  were  speaking  the  other  day 
of  Marjoribanks — Rebecca  Ethel — our  and  your  old  gov- 
erness ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  do !"  said  Rose.     "  What  of  her  ?" 

"  Just  read  that  note,  will  you,  please,  and  then  tell  me 
that  we  do  not  live  in  the  land  of  dreams,  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  cards,  that  spiritualism  isn't  true." 

"  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  the  fine  English  handwrit- 
ing !"  said  Rose,  looking  at  the  note. 

"  Rebecca  Ethel  has  seen  my  name  in  the  public  prints, 
she  says  (you  observe,  Miss  Rose,  this  pleasant  way  your 
American  papers  have  of  mentioning  where  one  dines  and 
calls,  and  where  he  takes  his  bath),  and  she  appeals  to  me 
for  a  character." 

"  Poor  thing !"  said  Rose.     "  Do  give  her  one." 

"  So  you  bear  no  malice  because  Rebecca  Ethel  aspired  to 
become  your  mamma-in-law  ?  You  forgive  her  for  Mang- 
nalVs  Questions  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  do.     Who  could  have  helped  loving  papa?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSS.  101 

said  innocent  Rose,  who  had  no  very  clear  ideas  of  the  pro- 
prieties as  interpreted  by  fashion. 

"Well,  I  do  not  know  anything  against  her,  I  am  sure," 
said  Sir  Lytton.  "  I  think  my  mother  sent  her  off  because 
we  were  all  through  Mangnall.  She  was  a  good-looking, 
red-haired,  Mercy  Merrick  sort  of  personage,  was  she  not  ? 
She  cannot  be  so  very  young  now." 

"  She  told  me  she  was  twenty-six,"  said  Rose,  to  whom 
that  age  seemed  to  have  been,  then,  Methuselan. 

"  Add  ten  years  to  that,  dear  Miss  Rose." 

"  I  mean  to  go  and  see  her — poor  Miss  Marjoribanks !" 
said  Rose. 

"  That  would  be  kind,"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  However,  let 
us  wait  awhile.  I  wonder  if  I  may  sit  down  to  your  aunt's 
table,  and  use  her  lovely  silver  inkstand  and  jolly  paper  and 
clean  pens  to  write  out  poor  Rebecca  Ethel  a  character? 
Stay, how  do  I  know  what  she  has  done  since?" 

"  Oh,  she  has  done  nothing  wrong.  She  is  a  good 
teacher,  I  know ;  and  if  she  is  a  little  sentimental,  that 
hurts  nobody,"  said  Rose. 

"She  certainly  taught  you  to  sing  very  charmingly," 
said  Sir  Lytton. 

So  between  them  these  philosophers  of  eighteen  and 
twenty  -  three  gave  Rebecca  Ethel  Marjoribanks  a  good 
character,  by  which  she  got  a  New  York  situation,  thus 
influencing  their  own  destinies  more  than  they  could  have 
thought.  Had  they  been  older,  they  would  have  paused  ere 
they  gave  a  recommendation.  The  ease — we  might  almost 
say  the  want  of  conscience — with  which  people  give  "char- 
acters "  in  America  has  led  to  no  end  of  trouble. 

So,  as  it  may  be  supposed,  Sir  Lytton's  recommendation, 
written  on  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  paper,  with  that  lady's  cipher 


102  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

on  the  sheet,  was  a  very  valuable  document  to  Rebecca 
Ethel  Marjoribanks. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack  was  idle,  or  neglecting  his  own  interests,  all  this  time. 
It  is  we  who  have  been  neglecting  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  the  infinite  surprise  of  Mrs.  Trevylyan  and  Rose,  he  be- 
came evidently  very  much  the  fashion.  Mrs.  Mortimer  ex- 
plained her  interest  in  him  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Mortimer 
had  large  business  interests  with  him,  and  that  he  had  re- 
quested her  to  show  him  attention.  "  He  is  a  rough  dia- 
mond, you  know,"  said  this  sapient  lady,  "  and  he  is  rather — 
just  a  little — unconventional ;  but  he  has  sterling  traits,  and 
he  is  an  important  factor  in  the  development  of  the  West." 

All  of  which  meant  that  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack 
had  some  stock,  or  was  creating  some,  in  a  Western  railroad, 
of  which  Mr.  Mortimer  wanted  shares — yes,  the  lion's  share. 

And  Sidonie  Devine  courted  him,  and  was  seen  in  deep 
conversation  with  him  at  a  Patriarchs'  ball.  Even  Fanny 
Grey,  refined  and  lovely,  invited  him  to  a  tea,  because  every- 
body did ;  and  the  seven  exclusive  McBrides,  who  came 
over  in  the  first  voyage  of  the  Mayflower,  all  smiled  sweet- 
ly on  the  great  Mack,  because  he  was  supposed  to  be  the 
coming  decillionaire. 

At  the  dinners  and  receptions  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
committed  a  thousand  faux  pas  where  Rose  had  committed 
one,  and  all  were  forgiven  him.  If  he  ate  with  his  knife, 
pushed  his  food  thereon  with  his  fingers,  and  defiled  the 
marble  floors  with  tobacco  juice,  people  either  looked  the 
other  way  or  forgave  it,  because  he  was  a  rough  diamond,  a 
great  power  in  Wall  Street,  a  "  coming  man." 

Had  any  power  seated  just  above  the  social  circle  of  our 
best  society  unroofed  the  houses,  like  a  modern  Asmodeus, 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSB.  103 

and  had  this  much-needed  spirit  taken  the  pains  to  com- 
pare the  behavior  of  the  fashionable  set  towards  the  inex- 
perienced but  naturally  refined  girl,  and  their  subsequent  be- 
havior towards  the  naturally  brutal,  repulsive,  and  ignoble 
man,  that  same  spirit  might  have  readily  observed,  "  How 
inconsistent  is  humanity  !"  But  as  that  has  been  said  before, 
perhaps  he  would  not  have  deigned  to  mention  it.  He 
might,  however,  have  given  a  Mephistophelian  grin. 

It  would,  perhaps,  have  not  troubled  the  spirit  to  know 
why  men  courted  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack.  Pluto 
is  a  god  whose  powers  of  persuasion,  ever  since  he  induced 
Proserpine  to  marry  him,  have  been  enormous,  and  if  Ha- 
thorne Mack  or  any  one  else  can  get  good  points  in  Wall 
Street  for  a  New  York  man  of  fashion,  the  man  of  fashion 
will  take  him  out  in  his  dog-cart  to  the  races. 

But  that  women,  refined  women,  should  have  so  soon 
adopted  him,  seemed  at  first  impossible.  Ah  !  Asmodeus, 
in  your  process  of  unroofing  houses  you  have  seen  that 
woman,  lovely  woman,  is  sometimes  venal.  She  too  spec- 
ulates in  Wall  Street. 

Mrs.  Morella  and  Sidonie  Devine  had  a  great  passion  for 
Wall  Street.  Almost  every  day  at  afternoon  tea  Jack 
Long  came  in,  and  Dicky  Smallweed,  and  several  others, 
with  the  stock  quotations,  and  some  thousands  changed 
hands  under  the  old  blue  teacups. 

Mrs.  Morella  had  a  beautiful  house,  every  sort  of  por- 
tiere, where  modern  elegance  made  luxury  and  taste  a  pal- 
pable atmosphere,  and  yet  what  a  jargon  was  talked  there ! 

Jack  Townley,  whose  devotion  to  Mrs.  Morella  had  been 
the  talk  of  the  town,  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  disgrace 
with  that  lady  since  he  had  in  a  measure  returned  to  Rose, 
and  his  place  was  filled  by  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack, 


104  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

whose  bouquets  were  the  biggest,  as  his  dinners  at  Delmon- 
ico's  were  the  most  expensive,  that  Mrs.  Morella  had  ever 
received  or  enjoyed. 

There  was,  however,  one  point  on  which  Mrs.  Morella 
and  Sidonie  held  high  and  most  painful  discourse. 

"He  wants  me  to  receive  his  sister,  that  horrid  Mrs. 
Philippeau,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Sidonie.  "  A  regular  second-rate. 
It  is  terrible.  We  cannot  do  it." 

"  It  would  be  so  different  if  she  were  not  known  at  all ; 
but  she  is  such  an  exact  caricature  of  nous  autres,  and  so 
conspicuous,  and  so  ambitious,  that  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  have 
the  creature  here,"  said  Mrs  Morella. 

"  I  have  a  thousand  in  Brandy  Gulch,"  said  Sidonie, 
reflectively,  "  and  my  broker  says  that,  if  he  will,  Ha- 
thorne  Mack  can  make  it  worth  ten  times  what  I  paid 
for  it." 

"  Oh,  I  am  much  deeper  in  than  that,"  said  Mrs.  Morella, 
"  but  I  would  rather  lose  it  all  than  to  see  that  woman 
Philippeau  in  my  drawing-room." 

"  I  tell  you,  we  must  temporize,"  said  Sidonie.  "  Or  we 
might  let  her  in,  and  make  it  so  uncomfortable  for  her  that 
she  would  immediately  be  glad  to  go  out  again." 

"  Oh  no,  we  could  not ;  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  is 
too  clever  for  that.  He  would  put  us  under  the  harrow  if  we 
did  not  treat  her  well.  No  more  dinners  at  Delmonico's;  no 
more  points.  When  he  sells  a  thing,  it  must  bring  its  mar- 
ket value ;  and  when  he  buys,  he  buys  cheap,  and  sells 
dear.  I  know  him.  It  is  only  by  feminine  wit  and  artifice 
that  we  can  keep  Philippeau  out.  Just  see  here ;  she  has 
had  the  impudence  to  write  to  me  about  a  governess  I  dis- 
charged, a  creature  named  Ethel  Marjoribanks,  and  who  I 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  105 

thought  stole  my  diamond  ear-ring.  Don't  you  remember? 
I  afterwards  found  it  in  the  coupe.  Well,  I  never  answered 
the  note,  and  she  has  written  me  another,  saying  I  need 
not  take  the  trouble,  as  she  has  had  a  charming  character 
of  her  from  Sir  Lytton  Leycester.  Now  did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  a  brute?" 

"  No ;  horrid,  vulgar,  pushing  creature !  Well,  I  tell  you, 
Fanny  Morella,  we  shall  have  to  notice  her." 

"  No,  Sidonie,  not  yet — not  yet ;  let  us  hope  for  better 
things." 

"  I  hope  for  nothing  since  I  see  the  success  of  Rose 
Chadwick,"  said  Sidonie,  looking  gloomily  in  the  fire. 

"  I  have  found  out  the  attraction  that  draws  Jack  Town- 
ley  and  Sir  Lytton,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

"What  is  it?" 

"They  are  both  deeply  interested  in  her  father's  silver 
mine." 

"  And  what  draws  Arthur  Amberley  ?" 

"  Tired  to  death  of  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

"  Yes,  that  has  something  to  do  with  it.  But  how  he 
can  bear  her  manners !" 

And  yet  Sidonie  could  bear  the  manners  of  the  Honor- 
able Hathorne  Mack ! 

Mrs.  Philippeau,  to  do  Mrs.  Morella  justice,  was  a  most  ob- 
jectionable person  to  the  eye  of  exclusive  fashion.  She 
had  married  a  rich  French  silk-importer,  who  had  no  idea 
that  society  would  ever  open  its  portals  to  him,  nor  did  he 
wish  it  to  do  so.  He  was  very  willing  that  his  wife  should 
have  all  the  brocades  and  diamonds,  fine  horses  and  opera- 
boxes  she  wanted,  if  she  would  leave  him  in  his  counting- 
room.  He  was  sorry  she  fretted  herself  so  about  that  world 
which  went  on  without  her,  and  often  talked  to  her,  with  his 


IOC  A    TKANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

mingled  French  philosophy  and  wit,  his  homely  wisdom, 
of  her  folly. 

"  Ah,  Marie,  vy  air  you  so  triste,  cherie  ?  You  haves  ze 
fine  horses  you  like,  and  I  gives  you  diamond  necklace  at 
Noel.  Now  share  up,  Marie — share  up."  (Mr.  Philippeau 
congratulated  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  American  slang.) 
"  You  sail  go  ze  pace,  Marie,  if  you  like — have  dinners,  fetes, 
all  ze  grand  tings.  Ven  I  vas  leetle  boy,  I  starve.  I  no 
have  good  coat  like  him"  — and  he  stretched  out  a  sealskin 
arm.  "  Now  I  am  varm,  veil  fed,  have  pretty  vife.  Marie, 
share  up !" 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  feelings,  Mr.  Phil- 
ippeau ?"  said  the  ungrateful  Marie.  "  What  good  do  my 
fine  clothes  do  me  ?  I  go  nowhere ;  I  cannot  wear  them ; 
I  am  not  in  society.  I  have  no  use  for  my  horses ;  they 
can  drive  me  nowhere  but  around  that  stupid  Park,  of  which 
I  am  tired.  I  see  all  the  ladies  chatting  at  the  opera,  but 
no  one  comes  to  speak  to  me  except  my  brother." 

"  Veil,  he  knows  ze  grandes  dames :  vy  does  he  not  make 
ze  acquaintance  for  you  ?  And  if  it  is  not  nice  here,  ven  I 
make  two,  tree  millions,  very  soon,  ve  go  to  France — 
la  belle  France — vere  it  is  shareful.  I  say,  Marie,  share 
up." 

And  the  little  square-faced,  homely,  plebeian  Frenchman 
tried  to  kiss  his  pretty,  vulgar,  discontented  wife,  who 
would  not  cheer  up  at  all. 

"I  wish  I  knew  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  and 
Mrs.  Morella,  and  that  pretty  Miss  Chadwick,  and  Miss 
Grey,"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau,  sighing. 

Her  cheerful  little  husband  sighed  too.  Here  was  a  grief 
which  he  could  not  reach ;  here  was  a  sorrow  for  which 
his  honestly  earned  money  could  buy  no  balm  of  Gilead, 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  10? 

If  a  woman  wants  "  society,"  society  can  be  as  cruel  as  the 
grave. 

"  Here,  papa !  here,  mamma !  here  comes  Pierre,"  sound- 
ed a  pleasant  little  voice  through  the  splendid  salon  of 
Mrs.  Philippeau,  and  the  prettiest  little  boy  dashed  in,  to  be 
caught  to  the  heart  of  his  loving  father,  who  felt  that  fort- 
une, comfort,  and  this  boy  were  quite  enough  to  be  grate- 
ful for. 

"  Ah  !  here  is  petite  maman  for  a  kiss,"  said  the  delight- 
ed father,  leading  him  up  to  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Philippeau  saluted  him  gravely :  the  bitterness  of 
her  social  ostracism  blighted  even  the  bliss  of  maternity. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Marjori banks  ?"  asked  his  mother,  see- 
ing the  boy  alone. 

"  Oh,  she  has  gone  out  to  walk,  and  I  am  to  drive  out 
with  papa,"  said  Pierre,  grasping  the  fat,  pudgy  fingers  with 
rapture. 

"  Sail  not  chere  maman  go  with  us  too  ?"  asked  Philip- 
peau, modestly,  looking  at  his  wife. 

"  Oh  no.  How  perfectly  common  we  should  look,  you 
and  I  and  the  child,  on  the  seat  of  your  dog-cart !  I 
wonder  at  your  vulgarity,  Philippeau !"  So  she  sat  and 
consumed  her  heart  with  bitterness. 


XV. 


"  COME  here,  Rose ;  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  new 
relative,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  as  she  caught  Rose  on  the 
stairs  just  going  out  for  her  horseback  exercise.  "Presi- 
dent Williams,  your  mother's  brother." 


108  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Rose  found  herself  opposite  the  gray-haired,  whitc-cravat- 
ted,  grave  gentleman  who  had  spoken  in  her  behalf  at  the 
theatricals. 

"  I  am  not  often  in  New  York,"  said  he,  smiling ;  "  but 
I  happened  to  be  visiting  a  friend,  who  took  me  to  see 
Miss  Chadwick  act  at  the  Union  League  Theatre  the  other 
evening.  I  was  delighted  indeed  to  recognize  a  niece. 
You  did  very  well.  I  remember  your  mother  had  a  very 
pretty  talent  for  these  amusements.  Now  I  have  come  as 
a  peace-maker.  Your  father  and  I  had  some  difficulty 
before  you  were  born,  and  we  have  never  spoken  since. 
We  are  not  to  be  commended  for  that,  my  dear.  Now  let 
us  be  friends.  I  live  in  a  very  quiet  university  town,  but 
you  must  come  next  summer  and  pay  your  aunt  and 
cousins  a  visit.  I  will  write  to  Pascal  to-morrow.  Why, 
my  dear,  how  much  you  look  like  your  father  and  your 
mother  both !  You  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  my  past 
twenty  years,  wasted  in  a  quarrel.  Well,  Pascal  has  been 
generous  to  me.  He  lost  some  money  for  me  once,  but 
he  has  paid  it  all  up  again." 

The  President  was  agreeable,  chatty,  and  kind.  It  gave 
Rose  a  new  sensation  to  hear  him  talk,  and  to  feel  that  she 
had  kindred  and  friends.  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  delighted 
with  the  reconciliation,  for  she  had  passed  her  life  striving 
to  smooth  over  family  feuds. 

After  Rose  left  them — for  Fountain  was  pawing  the 
ground  outside — Mrs.  Trevylyan  gave  President  Williams 
a  little  sketch  of  his  niece,  her  trials  and  her  mistakes,  and 
of  her  singular  success.  To  the  man  who  spent  his  life  in 
the  educating  of  young  men,  these  lesser  trials  of  a  pretty 
girl  who  made  a  few  blunders  in  etiquette  seemed  at  first 
very  trivial ;  but  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  a  woman  of  sense, 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  109 

and  she  opened  before  him  many  hidden  views  down  the 
corridors  of  society  which  had  not  been  revealed  to  him 
before.  "  She  has  been  so  neglected,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 
He  listened  and  thought.  Yes,  he  had  been  one  of  the 
people  to  blame.  He  might  have  sent  for  this  orphaned 
daughter  of  his  sister,  and  have  given  her  a  quiet,  scholarly, 
and  most  excellent  home :  he  had  neglected  her. 

"  But  she  seems  refined.  I  particularly  liked  her  elocu- 
tion," said  the  President. 

"  That  we  owe  to  the  perseverance  of  Professor  Paton," 
said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know  him  well.  He  was  one  of  my  old  pro- 
fessors. I  was  sorry  when  he  left  us ;  but  he  seems  to  be 
doing  vastly  better." 

"  Yes,  he  has  found  his  pot  of  gold,  and  many  friends." 

"  By-the-way,  I  have  met  an  agreeable  woman,  who  spoke 
of  you  and  Rose — Mrs.  Carver ;  she  was  painting  a  watej- 
color  of  a  very  pretty  woman,  Mrs.  Philippeau." 

"Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Carver,  a  most  fascinating  talker — poor, 
very  poor,  has  to  aid  herself  by  painting  photographs. 
This  Mrs.  Philippeau  is  rich  and  vulgar,  and  knows  that  it 
is  a  good  thing  to  patronize  her." 

The  President  wrinkled  his  heavy  brows.  He  did  not 
like  this  talk  of  society,  this  sort  of  revealing  of  base 
motives.  He  had  seen  two  agreeable  women  together,  the 
one  painting,  the  other  being  painted;  he  saw  nothing 
vulgar  in  either — no  patronage,  and  no  loss  of  caste. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  too  experienced  in  the  art  of  con- 
versation not  to  see  that  she  had  jarred  upon  the  feelings 
of  the  President. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  more,"  said  she.     "  Mrs.  Philippeau 

is  a  woman  who  makes  herself  ridiculous  by  trying  to  be 

8 


110  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

fashionable.  She  pushes,  and  pushes,  and  pushes.  She 
has  money,  but  she  does  not  know  the  fashionable  set — the 
set  she  wishes  to  know — so  she  subscribes  to  every  fashion- 
able charity;  she  goes  everywhere  that  she  can  go;  she 
apes  the  follies  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  and  Fashion,  like 
every  other  passion,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  only  sees  how  fool- 
ish it  is  when  it  is  caricatured ;  therefore  the  women  whom 
she  wants  to  know  take  a  wonderful  pleasure  in  keeping 
her  out.  Mrs.  Philippeau  has  observed  that,  after  a  cer- 
tain position  has  been  reached,  a  reputation  for  fastness  is 
a  great  and  triumphant  emblazonment,  so  she  tries  a  little 
flirting,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  with  men  who  are  not 
yet  the  fashion,  not  having  the  wit  to  observe  that  what 
would  be  forgiven  to  Mrs.  Morella  is  rank  blasphemy  in  a 
nobody.  This,  you  may  say,  shows — " 

"  An  impoverished  moral  sense,"  said  the  President. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  laughed.  "  My  dear  President,  I  am 
ashamed  to  talk  to  a  man  of  your  dignity  of  these  fol- 
lies of  a  crowded  social  life;  I  cannot  find  the  proper 
phraseology." 

"I  understand  you,  I  think.  You  would  say  that  this 
pretty  woman,  this  Mrs.  Philippeau,  is  a  very  bad  copy  of 
a  villanous  original — do  I  understand  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan  ;  "  you  state  it  strongly." 

"  I  know  you  have  forsaken  it  all,  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  Tell 
me,  do  you  not  dread  this  modern  world,  this  day  in  which 
we  have  thrown  away  too  much  ?  We  had  guards,  tradi- 
tions of  good-breeding,  in  our  day ;  now  we  have  none. 
Do  you  wish  my  niece  to  be  a  purely  fashionable  woman  ? 
Tell  me,  has  religion  no  place  in  this  education  which  you 
are  giving  her  ?" 

"  Come  here,  President,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan ;  and  she 


A    TRANSPLANTED    KOSE.  Ill 

led  him  into  her  own  little  sanctuary,  where  stood  her 
writing-table.  Books  and  work  lay  in  orderly  confusion. 

She  led  him  to  another  table,  where  Eose  bad  marked 
out  her  own  day's  work.  There  lay  her  books  of  devotion 
and  her  calendar  for  the  week.  So  many  hours  for  study, 
so  many  for  the  poor  and  suffering,  so  many  for  religious 
duty,  so  many  for  her  Bible  class. 

The  President  was  satisfied.  "  I  ask  your  pardon,  Mrs. 
Trevylyan.  So  long  as  she  seeks  fashion  and  a  knowledge 
of  etiquette  with  these  strong  grappling  chains  to  hold  her 
to  an  honest  and  true  womanhood,  I  shall  not  despair ;  but 
it  seems  light  and  frivolous  to  me." 

"And  yet  it  is  a  service,  this  of  the  world,  for  which 
people  strive  and  work  hard,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  to  inherit  a  large  fortune  I"  asked  the 
President. 

"  I  hear  that  Pascal  is  now  rich,  and  with  a  certain  fort- 
une," said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  the  President.  "  I  am,  however, 
thinking  what  would  become  of  his  daughter  if  he  should 
die  poor." 

"I  believe  Rose  would  have  courage  for  any  fate.'  It  is 
my  business  just  now  to  prepare  her  for  that  life  in  the 
world  to  which,  should  she  marry  well,  she  may  be  called. 
You  remember  Tennyson's  poem  of  the  Lord  of  Burleigh 
and  of  the  poor  girl  who  died 

"'With  the  burden  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born.'  " 

"Yes;  but  we  Americans  are  born  to  all  honor." 
"  I  am  aware  of  that.     But  we  are  not  born  to  good 
manners.     Nobody  is.     That  must  be   taught.     Since   I 


112  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

have  seen  Rose  suffer,  I  feel  how  necessary  these  little 
things  are.  We  must  condescend  to  think  that  etiquette 
is  a  minor  classic,  which  should  be  added  to  our  academic 
course." 

"  Well,  well,  I  do  not  know  but  you  are  right,  dear  Mrs. 
Trevylyan.  Certainly  I  am  not  too  old  or  too  countrified 
to  be  charmed  by  an  agreeable  manner.  Good-morning, 
and  give  my  farewell  and  love  to  Rose." 

Meantime  Rose  was  trotting  along  in  the  Park,  with  her 
groom  behind  her,  Harriet  Amberley  and  Jack  Townley 
not  far  behind  ;  but  by  her  side  Sir  Lytton  was  riding,  and 
looking  into  her  bright  eyes  whenever  Fountain  gave  him 
a  chance. 

This  intimacy  had  grown,  as  all  such  intimacies  do,  un- 
consciously. Sir  Lytton  did  not  mean  to  fall  in  love  in 
America.  He  knew  that  there  were  many  reasons  why  he 
should  not.  He  had,  however,  encountered  a  beautiful, 
young,  original  woman,  unlike  any  other  whom  he  had  met, 
preoccupied,  too,  when  he  first  saw  her,  and  careless  of 
pleasing  him.  Yet,  as  he  had  known  her  better,  she  had 
grown  so  winning,  so  confidential,  so  full  of  respect  and  re- 
gard for  his  opinion,  that  the  young  baronet  was  completely 
won,  and  fell  head  over  ears  in  love.  A  thousand  times  he 
tried  to  tell  her  so,  but  the  hour  was  not  yet  arrived  for 
that.  Love  is  a  fruit  which  will  ripen  and  open  in  its  own 
good  time ;  no  gardener  can  force  it. 

Every  day  Rose  gave  Sir  Lytton  some  reason  to  think 
that  she  loved  him ;  every  day  she  drove  him  to  despair 
by  a  certain  frankness  and  confiding  naturalness  which  was 
not  love.  Sir  Lytton  knew  very  little  of  women,  but  he 
knew  enough  for  that.  He  knew  that  Rose  could  live 
without  him.  So,  disliking  to  destroy  the  charm  of  an  ac- 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  113 

quaintance  which  was  always  baffling  and  always  charming, 
he  allowed  the  golden  moments  to  float  along,  with  his 
message  yet  unspoken. 

He  was  as  delightful  as  he  could  be,  this  young  English- 
man. There  wr.s  a  "  contagion  of  nobility  "  about  him  : 
not  only  his  refined  Norman  face,  his  perfect  manners,  his 
manly  soul,  his  good  heart,  but  he  had  a  generous  desire 
to  make  himself  agreeable.  He  had  a  sunny  kindness  in 
his  soul.  Dogs  and  horses  loved  him ;  servants  liked  to 
wait  upon  him ;  he  was  the  most  unconscious  fascinator. 

Love  was  not  with  Rose  a  matter  of  "  two  quadrilles  and 
three  waltzes."  If  she  had  partly  forgotten  Jack  Townley, 
if  she  half  remembered  how  he  had  been  the  first  image  in 
the  magic  mirror,  she  was  not  much  to  be  blamed.  Life 
to  her  was  still  a  dream.  Some  new  and  almost  contradic- 
tory incident  came  up  every  day,  and  she  had  not  only  to 
learn  the  ways  of  society,  but  that  deeper  and  more  in- 
tricate country,  her  own  heart. 

Meantime  Jack  Townley,  as  many  a  worldling  has  done 
before  and  since,  had  been  too  much  disturbed  as  to  his 
digestion,  or  the  fit  of  his  clothes,  or  the  proper  tempera- 
ture of  his  Burgundy.  Things  were  going  wrong  with 
Jack  Townley.  He  did  not  quite  know  what  was  the  matr 
ter.  The  quiet,  soothing,  and  unexciting  conversation  of 
Harriet  Amberley  always  had  a  comforting  effect  upon  him, 
and  to-day  she,  respecting  his  far-off  glances,  which  be- 
trayed where  he  wished  to  be,  i.  e.,  in  Sir  Lytton's  saddle, 
with  a  woman's  tact  began  on  a  subject  which  made  them 
both  laugh. 

"Mrs.  Carver's  picture  of  Mrs.  Philippeau  is  to  go  to 
the  exhibition,  I  hear,"  said  Harriet. 

"Ah,  she  has  got  so   far,  has  she,  poor  pretty  little 


114  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

woman  !  I  wonder  if  Sidonie  and  Mrs.  Morella  will  go  and 
throw  penknives  at  it?  If  I  had  my  way,  Mrs.  Philippeau 
should  be  admitted  to  the  F.  C.  D.  C." 

"  Her  brother  is,  and  he  is  less  pretty." 

"  Yes,  decidedly ;  but  then  he  sells  us  '  Brandy  Gulch,' 
you  know,  Miss  Amberley." 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  stopped  persecuting  Rose,"  said  Har- 
riet Amberley. 

"  He  has  his  eye  on  her,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Amberley. 
He  is  a  strange  and  powerful  man  ;  he  holds  Pascal  Chad- 
wick  between  bis  thumb  and  forefinger.  If  he  wishes  to 
marry  Rose,  and  she  will  not  have  him,  I  believe  he  is 
capable  of  ruining  her  father." 

"  What  a  wretch !"  said  Harriet.  "  Why  do  you  asso- 
ciate with  him?" 

"  Miss  Amberley,  I  have  long  since  determined  to  ask 
myself  no  questions.  I  do  not  know  why  I  associate  with 
anybody.  I  am  the  creature  of  fate." 

Harriet  Araberley  laughed,  as  if  anybody  was  less  the 
creature  of  fate  than  this  man. 

Polished,  elegant,  selfish,  well-born,  and  well-bred,  with 
that  devotion  to  society  which  becomes  a  profession,  Jack 
Townley  looked  and  acted  as  if  enveloped  in  an  armor  of 
proof.  He  seemed  to  walk  protected  by  the  harness  of 
many  generations  of  London  tailo/s,  and  yet  Jack  Townley 
suddenly  felt  that  he  had  been  playing  genteel  comedy  all 
his  life.  Was  there  something  else,  something  better  than 
all  this,  or  had  he  suddenly  gone  wrong  in  health  ? 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me  to-day,"  said 
he  apologetically  to  Miss  Amberley,  after  a  long  silence. 
"  Do  forgive  me  for  my  stupidity.  I  believe  I  must  give 
up  smoking  cigarettes." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  115 

"  They  are  very  harmful,  I  believe,"  said  Harriet.  "  They 
are  rolled  in  that  horrid  paper  which  gives  you  cancer  on 
the  lip,  and  polypus  in  the  nose." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Amberley,  don't.     Not  so  bad  as  that." 
Here  Sir  Lytton  and  Rose  stopped  for  them,  and  the 
two  girls  chatted  for  a  moment. 


XVI. 

"  I  KNOW  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Jack  Town- 
ley,"  said  Harriet  to  herself,  as  they  trotted  home,  "and 
I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  my  grave  brother,  and  with 
Sir  Lytton.  You  have  all  found  a  fascinating  young  girl, 
who  is  as  yet  quite  uncertain  on  which  of  you  she  will 
bestow  the  prize  of  her  fresh  young  heart."  Jack  Town- 
ley  was  quite  correct  in  his  supposition  that  the  Honorable 
Hathorne  Mack  did  not  mean  to  leave  Rose  alone.  He 
had  merely  been,  with  his  usual  canning,  playing  out  his 
salmon.  He  watched  her  movements  with  the  secrecy  of 
a  cat,  and  was  not  at  all  unaware  of  the  various  "flirta- 
tions," as  he  called  them,  which  she  was  carrying  on  with 
different  men.  He  was  a  man  who  had  gained  everything 
he  wanted  in  life  by  a  sort  of  brutal  courage,  persistency, 
and  assumption.  He  did  not  doubt  that  he  should  still 
gain  all  he  wanted  by  the  same  means. 

He  had  a  strong,  determined  passion  for  the  girl ;  it  was 
the  almost  ferocious  love  which  comes  to  a  man  when  he 
has  passed  his  first  youth,  when  life  lies  behind  him  a 
partly  conquered  province,  whose  green  fields  and  waving 
vineyards  he  is  yet  to  enjoy. 


116  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Hathorne  Mack  had  won  his  fortune  and  his  position  by 
the  hardest  toil.  He  felt  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  be- 
gin to  enjoy. 

It  was  for  Rose  that  he  flirted  with  Mrs.  Morella  and 
Miss  Devine.  It  was  for  Rose  that  he  allowed  these  so- 
ciety men  to  become  his  slaves  or  his  dupes  as  he  held 
forth  his  tempting  shares.  He  gave  dinners  at  Delmonico's 
that  Rose  might  hear  of  them ;  he  sent  flowers,  played  the 
magnifico,  that  Rose  might  be  dazzled.  He  was  not  with- 
out a  certain  sense  of  gratified  power  that  all  these  elegant 
people  began  to  pay  court  to  him,  Hathorne  Mack ;  and 
he  thought  sometimes  of  the  country  tavern  where  he  was 
reared,  and  the  old  mother  who  had  sat  and  smoked  her 
pipe  as  she  hurled  epithets  at  him,  and  of  his  own  ragged, 
neglected  self  in  those  days,  with  a  sort  of  satyr  satisfac- 
tion. Then  he  remembered  the  only  good  deed  of  his 
life :  how  after  the  old  people  dfed  he  had  taken  his  young 
sister,  the  child  of  their  old  age,  and  had  supported  her,  ed- 
ucated her  after  a  fashion,  and  brought  her  along  until  now 
she  was  the  rich,  handsome,  discontented  Mrs.  Philippeau. 

He  had  more  affection  for  this  sister  than  for  any  one 
on  earth.  Until  he  had  fallen  in  love  it  may  be  safe  to 
say  that  his  sister  was  the  only  human  being  he  cared  for 
at  all. 

When  she  made  an  excellent  marriage  in  a  worldly  sense, 
Hathorne  Mack  had  ceased  to  take  any  particular  care  of 
her.  But  now  that  he  had  come  to  New  York,  she  claimed 
of  him  his  old  love  and  kindness.  She  demanded  that  he 
should  give  her  society,  as  he  had  given  her  clothes  and 
schools  and  food  and  shelter  in  the  past. 

But  the  two  found  that  society  was  a  good  which  money 
rould  not  always  buy. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  117 

Mrs.  Mortimer  said,  when  he  asked  her  to  call  on  his 
sister :  "  Dear  Mr.  Mack,  my  visiting-list  is  so  large  that  I 
never  get  round  once  in  two  years.  I  have  solemnly  prom- 
ised Mr.  Mortimer  that  I  will  not  know  another  person. 
Why,  look  at  the  cards  left  to-day  !  Just  imagine  my  em- 
barrassment !  My  sister  Louisa  marriad  into  the  Delavans, 
and  they  are  legion.  Now  a  Delavan  has  married  a  Mo- 
rella,  and  they  are  as  the  sands  of  the  sea.  They  alone 
have  sent  me  five  new  acquaintances,  on  whom  I  must 
call.  Now,  isn't  that  intolerable?  Just  wait  awhile  be- 
fore you  ask  me  to  call  on  anybody.  Mrs.  Morella  ought 
to  call ;  she  is  a  young  woman,  with  no  visiting-book  at 
all.  And  Jack  Townley  and  Dicky  Smallweed  must  get 
your  sister's  name  put  down  for  the  balls,  and  the  skating- 
rink,  etc." 

Mrs.  Morella  pleaded  bad  health,  and  all  sorts  of  absurd 
things,  until  she  saw  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  grow 
purple  in  the  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  sister  ?"  he  asked.  "  She 
is  as  good-looking  and  as  well  dressed  as  any  of  you,  and 
has  a  great  deal  more  money." 

"  But,  dear  Mr.  Mack,  she  has  such  a  dreadfully  vulgar 
husband,"  said  Mrs.  Morella,  driven  into  a  corner. 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  did  not  like  his  brother- 
in-law.  Here  he  was  content  with  an  explanation.  The 
little  Frenchman  knew  how  to  take  care  of  his  money. 
He  never  went  into  any  of  the  schemes.  His  dollars  rolled 
up,  and  he  put  them  safely  away ;  bought  corner  houses 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  things  which  he  could  see.  Then 
he  sent  home  to  France,  and  perhaps  did  a  neat  thing  on 
the  Bourse,  if  he  speculated  anywhere. 

"  I  vill  go  down  to  ze  bank  of  my  good  friend  Moses 


118  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Tayleure,  and  put  in  ze  rest  for  Marie,"  he  would  whisper 
to  himself,  as  the  good  money  rolled  in.  "  But  my  brother- 
in-law,  no.  He  has  not  ze  clean  hands.  No  !" 

So  when  Mrs.  Morella  declared  that  poor  little  Philip- 
peau  stood  in  the  way,  and  prevented  the  gates  of  fashion 
from  flying  open,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  was  in- 
clined to  believe  her. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  and  he  had  come  to  an  almost  open 
fight,  so  he  could  hardly  ask  her  to  call.  In  fact,  he  dread- 
ed those  clear,  courageous  eyes  of  hers.  He  knew  she 
would  say  no,  and  would  tell  him  the  reason  why. 

But  Fate,  whose  puppets  we  all  are,  threw  Mrs.  Philip- 
peau  into  society,  and  society  at  Mrs.  Philippeau,  in  a 
strange  way,  by  a  dreadful  misfortune  to  poor  Rose,  whose 
sky  became  suddenly  overcast. 

Fountain  had  never  been  quite  safe  since  his  first  fright. 
He  had  been  startled  once  or  twice  by  a  passing  vehicle, 
and  had  attempted  to  run.  Rose  was  an  admirable  horse- 
woman, and  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  mouth ;  her 
own  seat  was  perfect.  So,  allowing  him  the  rein  judicious- 
ly, she  had  always  succeeded  in  curbing  him  at  last. 

But  on  one  nearly  fatal  Friday,  as  she  was  coming  out 
of  the  Park,  Fountain  took  fright  and  ran ;  and  as  he  did 
so  a  victoria  in  front  of  him  caught  in  the  wheel  of  an- 
other vehicle,  was  overturned,  and  a  general  commotion 
caused  a  great  crowd  and  confusion.  Fountain  became 
that  dreadful  thing,  a  crazy,  frightened  horse,  and  ran 
away  down  through  Fifth  Avenue,  wholly  unmindful  of 
the  firm  little  hand  on  the  rein. 

Rose  showed  admirable  coolness.  Those  who  looked 
long  remembered  the  closely  shut  lips,  the  bright  wide-open 
eye,  the  high  color,  the  firm  seat.  She  put  her  hand  on 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  119 

his  neck,  spoke  to  him,  held  his  head  firmly ;  but  it  was 
of  no  use.  He  was  wildly  insane,  mad,  and  uncontrol- 
lable. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
behind  her,  and  Fountain  swayed  to  the  left.  A  sharp, 
sudden,  dreadful  pain  struck  her  leg.  The  shaft  of  a  pass- 
ing vehicle  had  knocked  violently  against  her.  She  felt 
deadly  sick,  and  knew  that  in  a  moment  she  should  fall 
into  that  terrible  vortex  of  passing  carriages,  when  an  arm 
was  reached  out  that  clasped  her  waist,  and  she  felt  that 
she  was  being  lifted  from  her  horse.  Then  all  grew  black 
before  her  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  over  her  shoulder  of  the 
hateful  face  of  Hathorne  Mack. 

Yes,  he  had  saved  her  life.  He  knew  how  to  ride,  did 
the  Honorable  Hathorne.  He  had  learned  of  the  Mexicans, 
and  had  before  this  seized  an  adversary  off  a  horse.  He 
had  been  riding  in  the  Park,  watching  Rose  from  afar  off, 
and  had  intended  to  join  her  as  she  emerged  into  Fifth 
Avenue.  Whether  she  had  seen  him  or  not,  he  could  not 
tell;  but  he  saw  Fountain  begin  to  run.  Then  to  follow 
her,  to  catch  her  as  she  was  about  to  fall,  was  a  brave  and 
manly  thing.  Perhaps  not  another  man  in  New  York 
could  have  done  the  deed  of  strength  and  daring  which  he 
did.  Xor  was  it  easy  for  him  to  support  his  fainting  bur- 
den, or  to  control  his  own  horse,  with  Rose  in  front  of 
him,  until  he  could  turn  into  a  side  street. 

But,  that  done,  all  was  easy.  The  crowd  followed  him. 
Rose  was  gently  lifted  down,  and  he  alighted.  A  doctor 
came  and  felt  her  heart.  A  woman  with  red  hair  emerged 
from  the  crowd.  "  Rose  Chadwick,"  said  she,  kneeling  by 
her  side. 

It  was  her  old  governess,  Miss  Marjoribanks ;  and  when 


120  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Rose  opened  her  eyes,  she  gave  a  little  groan,  and  recog- 
nized her. 

They  tried  to  lift  her  to  her  feet,  and  she  leaned  on 
Miss  Marjoribanks. 

"  My  leg  is  broken,"  said  the  poor  girl,  falling  again, 
and  faint  with  pain. 

"  Take  her  to  your  sister's  house ;  it  is  just  around  the 
corner.  She  must  not  be  carried  farther,"  said  Miss  Mar- 
joribanks to  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack. 

Little  Philippeau  was  just  going  up  his  steps  as  he  saw 
the  mournful  procession  coming  thither.  His  governess 
ran  on  to  explain.  Never  did  an  honest  gentleman  open 
his  door  more  quickly ;  never  was  a  doctor  brought  more 
speedily;  never  did  a  more  tender  heart  feel  for  the 
wounded  and  suffering.  And  then  he  ran  to  tell  Marie, 
who  would  be  nervous  and  frightened,  he  feared. 

Aias  for  the  nobility  of  his  own  nature,  he  little  knew 
of  the  selfish  joy  which  filled  the  heart  of  Marie !  She 
saw  it  at  a  glance.  Now  she  would  get  into  society ;  now 
was  her  chance !  Fate  had  opened  the  door. 

And  she  was  not  disappointed.  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  by 
her  niece's  side  in  half  an  hour,  overwhelmed  with  sorrow, 
anxiety,  and  gratitude.  The  doctor  declared  that  Miss 
Chadwick  must  not  be  moved,  and  Mrs.  Philippeau  put 
her  whole  house  at  the  disposal  of  doctors  and  nurses. 

She  reminded  Mrs.  Trevylyan  that  she  had  accidentally 
engaged  Miss  Chadwick's  old  governess  (with  a  recommen- 
dation from  Sir  Lytton  Leycester),  and  that  no  one  could 
be  more  devoted  than  she  would  be,  etc.,  etc. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan,  a  feeble  invalid  herself,  was  overcome 
by  all  this  kindness.  "  What  injustice  I  have  been  doing 
this  woman !"  said  she. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  121 

Mis.  Mortimer,  Fanny  Grey,  Harriet  Amberley — all  called 
the  next  day  to  inquire  for  Rose.  Nothing  could  be  more 
sweet,  more  gentle,  more  delightful,  than  Mrs.  Philippeau. 
Every  one  went  away  charmed. 

Then  came  Jack  Townley,  Sir  Lytton  Leycester,  Jack 
Long,  Dicky  Small  weed ;  and  finally,  since  every  one  called, 
so  did  Mrs.  Morella  and  Sidonie  Devine. 

The  rescue  had  been  so  romantic !  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack  came  near  having  a  reception  tendered  to  him  at  the 
City  Hall. 

Then  it  was  discovered  that  Mrs.  Philippeau's  house  was 
full  of  pretty  things — such  water-colors !  such  miniatures ! 
such  china !  such  bric-a-brac  ! 

Of  course  no  one  saw  Rose.  She,  poor  child,  lay  in  a 
burning  fever,  scarcely  conscious  that  old  Martha  and  Miss 
Marjoribanks  and  Mrs.  Trevylyan  and  a  strange  new  nurse 
hovered  around  her  bed. 

She  had  been  injured  more  than  they  thought.  The 
broken  leg  was  not  the  only  wound.  And  the  fright,  the 
terrible  shock  to  the  nervous  system,  came  when  she  was 
wearied  by  a  winter  of  extraordinary  excitements,  and  after 
much  work.  Yes,  much,  too  much,  work. 

So  society,  shocked,  stunned,  grieved  as  it  was  for  a 
day  or  two  by  so  serious  an  accident  to  one  who  had 
held  but  lately  so  prominent  a  place  in  its  circles,  turned 
in  its  way  to  the  later  sensation,  Mrs.  Philippeau,  who  re- 
ceived all  her  callers  with  a  grave  dignity,  and  who  re- 
ported Miss  Chadwick's  condition  with  the  sincerest  con- 
cern. 

"  I  declare  she  is  all  right,  except  that  she  wears  her 
diamonds  in  the  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

"  She  has  excellent  teacups,"  said  Sidonie.     "  And  what 


122  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

a  good-looking  red-haired  woman  that  is  who  sits  and 
turns  out  the  tea !" 

"  Oh !  that  is  the  English  governess,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 
"Do  you  know,  Sidonie,  I  should  not  wonder  if  she  had 
given  Mrs.  Philippeau  some  hints  ?  She  is  not  half  so  vul- 
gar as  she  was." 

"  She  is  quiet  enough,"  said  Sidonie. 

The  gentlemen  were  all  in  favor  of  Mrs.  Philippeau. 
Her  beauty  began  to  assert  itself  under  the  favorable  cir- 
cumstances of  Worth  peignoirs,  shaded  rooms,  and  a  sad 
air. 

Ethel  Marjoribanks  sat  and  poured  the  tea,  and  enter- 
tained the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,  and  observed  the 
world  which  floated  before  her  in  a  still,  quiet  way.  Her 
pupil  Pierre  gave  her  but  little  trouble.  He  had  two 
nurses  to  dress  him  and  undress  him ;  he  had  his  loving 
father  to  caress  and  drive  him  out ;  and  the  English  gov- 
erness, who  had  been  the  foot-ball  of  fortune  for  many  a 
long  year,  thought  that  her  lot  had  at  last  fallen  in  pleas- 
ant places. 

Many  a  hint  did  she  contrive  to  give  to  Mrs.  Philip- 
peau, who  knew  little  or  nothing  of  society.  She  wrote 
her  notes ;  she  told  her  of  the  families  she  had  lived 
with  in  England;  she  advised  this  calm,  dignified  self- 
abnegation.  No  vulgar  young  upstart  ever  had  a  better 
friend. 

Meantime  Miss  Marjoribanks  was  watching  the  situation. 
It  grew  more  interesting  and  more  complicated  every  day. 
She  taught  Pierre  conscientiously.  She  nursed  Rose,  when 
her  turn  came,  faithfully.  Meantime  she  was  speculating 
upon  higher  game. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  123 


XVII. 

"Is  polite  society  polite?"  What,  after  all,  are  the 
requisites  for  good  society  ?  A  high  moral  character,  a 
polished  education,  a  perfect  command  of  temper,  good- 
breeding,  delicate  feelings,  good  manners,  good  habits? 
Are  wit,  accomplishments,  and  talent  advantages  ? 

Is  society  the  meeting  on  a  footing  of  equality,  and  for 
the  purposes  of  mutual  entertainment,  of  men,  of  women, 
together,  of  good  character,  good  education,  and  good- 
breeding,  or  is  it  a  place  where  wealth  commands  the  first 
place,  and  where  a  spotless  reputation  is  of  very  little  ac- 
count unless  it  has  something  else  to  offer  to  a  selfish 
world  ? 

Certainly  the  old  ideas  were  all  comprehended  in  the 
earlier  codes,  even  the  selfish  code  of  Chesterfield. 

But  in  the  modern  world  of  society  in  England  and  in 
America,  we  learn  to-day  that  these  requisites  do  not  al- 
ways enter  into  the  demeanor  of  the  fashionable.  The 
first  maxim  of  politeness  was  to  be  agreeable  to  everybody, 
even  at  the  expense  of  one's  own  comfort.  The  fashion- 
able expert  of  to-day  treats  herself  to  a  great  license  of 
rudeness,  and  the  bad-mannered  are  most  powerful.  Every 
one  fears  them,  every  one  pulls  away  a  foot  if  it  is  to  be 
trampled  upon. 

We  have  seen  how  in  the  case  of  poor  Rose  the  absence 
of  a  knowledge  of  a  set  of  arbitrary  rules  which  society 
has  made  for  its  own  preservation  caused  her  annoyance 
and  distress.  We  have  seen,  also,  how  the  cruelty  of  those 


124  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

whose  mission  it  was  to  be  polite  had  hurt  her  feelings  and 
confused  her  mind.  We  ought  all  to  be  thankful  for  these 
arbitrary  rules,  for  they  save  much  trouble,  doubt,  and  un- 
certainty. With  a  knowledge  of  these  ordinances  of 
society,  the  least  skilled  person  can  in  a  short  time  take 
her  place  comfortably  at  a  court,  if  called  upon  to  do  so. 
But  for  the  cruelty  and  bad-breeding  of  those  who  stand 
at  the  portals  of  good  society,  like  bad  angels  with  flaming 
swords  to  smite  rather  than  to  give  the  accolade,  we  have 
no  explanation,  and  can  find  no  forgiveness. 

Despots  of  fashion,  like  all  despots,  change  their  minds 
more  frequently  than  other  people,  nor  do  they  ask  any- 
body to  excuse  them  for  so  doing. 

So  no  one  received  an  apology  from  Mrs.  Mortimer,  Mrs. 
Morella,  or  Miss  Devine  that  they  began  in  a  patronizing 
way  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Philippeau  as  if  she  were  "  one  of 
us,"  that  some  grudging  invitations  were  given  to  her,  and 
that  on  the  Avenue  she  received  a  few  mutilated  bows. 
Her  own  manners  and  dress  were  undergoing  a  change,  and 
an  improvement,  but  Mrs.  Philippeau  did  not  grow  refined 
half  as  fast  as  her  enemies  grew  forgiving,  for  motives  of 
their  own. 

These  were  great  days  for  Brandy  Gulch.  Sidonie 
Devine  made  a  large  sum  of  money ;  Mrs.  Morella  came 
out  with  a  new  diamond  necklace;  and  the  Honorable 
Hathorne  Mack  was  in  the  highest  of  spirits. 

But  Mrs.  Trevylyau  was  breaking  down  with  a  new 
anxiety.  Her  telegrams  and  letters  to  her  brother  re- 
mained unanswered.  The  Scotch  farmer  wrote  that  Mr. 
Chadwick  had  departed  for  Alaska,  without  telling  them 
when  he  should  come  back,  and  that  they  were  expecting 
to  hear  from  him  every  day. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSB.  125 

The  Scotchwoman,  who  entered  his  deserted  parlor  to 
lay  one  letter  after  another  on  that  now  dusty  pile  which 
had  been  accumulating  for  weeks,  thought  sadly  of  the 
brilliant  child  who  had  once  brightened  the  room,  and 
anxiously  of  her  master.  He  was  often  gone  a  long  time, 
but  they  heard  from  him ;  he  sent  for  his  letters,  and 
made  them  some  communication.  Now  he  had  relapsed 
into  unusual  silence.  Mrs.  Trevylyan  was  unable  to  go  and 
see  Rose  now,  for  her  old  malady  came  back,  as  it  always 
does  when  the  mind  is  troubled,  and  she  was  laid  up  with 
rheumatism ;  but  she  wrote  to  Hathorne  Mack  to  ask  him 
what  could  have  become  of  Pascal — Pascal,  who  should 
know  of  his  daughter's  accident. 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  did  not  trouble  himself 
to  answer  hurriedly.  When  he  deigned  to  explain,  he 
wrote  that  his  friend  Chadwick  had  probably  sailed  for 
the  Sandwich  Islands,  where  they  had  some  joint  in- 
terests. 

"Ah,  madam,"  said  he  to  himself,  snapping  his  pudgy 
fingers,  "you  dared  and  defied  Hathorne  Mack,  did  you? 
Well,  I  should  like  to  see  which  of  us  is  ahead  just  now !" 

Rose  was  indeed  in  the  hands  of  her  enemies.  She  had 
been  delivered  over  to  them,  bound  hand  and  foot.  For 
many  weeks  she  was  too  ill  to  care  much,  and  pain  absorbed 
all  her  attention. 

As  for  physical  comforts,  she  had  enough  and  to  spare, 
and  she  was  as  well  cared  for  as  ever  patient  with  broken 
leg  could  be.  That  horrible  plaster  jacket  would  have 
been  equally  intolerable  anywhere,  but  every  taste  was  con- 
sulted, every  alleviation  procured.  She  and  Miss  Marjori- 
banks  had  never  been  enemies ;  they  became  almost  warm 
friends  in  these  bitter  days,  and  her  other  friends  were 

9 


126  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

very  kind.  Flowers  and  fruits,  and  cards  and  notes,  all 
poured  in  upon  her. 

And  she  was  very  much  entertained  by  Pierre,  and  got 

•/  J 

to  like  the  kind-hearted  little  Frenchman,  her  host.  He 
was  so  sincerely  sorry  for  her,  and  so  kind  and  amusing ! 
He  invented  a  thousand  little  surprises  for  "  ze  poor 
mademoiselle,"  and  was  always  bringing  her  a  bird  in  the 
cage,  a  marmot,  a  squirrel,  a  little  dog ;  a  parrot  even  oc- 
curred to  him  as  likely  to  rouse  her  spirits  in  her  cap- 
tivity. 

She  had  been  told  carefully  of  her  father's  probable  de- 
parture for  the  Sandwich  Islands  and  of  her  aunt's  illness; 
so,  as  Martha  came  every  day  with  cheerful  face,  she  ac- 
cepted these  two  desagrements  with  patience.  She  was 
accustomed  to  her  father's  absence. 

Her  hostess  she  liked  least  of  all,  although  Marie  was 
very  kind.  No  sort  of  conversation  amused  Mrs.  Philip- 
peau  excepting  the  tittle-tattle  of  society,  and  her  questions 
seemed  to  Rose  to  be  those  of  an  inquisitor.  She  was 
asked  how  she  liked  Mrs.  Mortimer ;  how  many  balls  and 
dinners  she  gave ;  how  many  Mrs.  Morella  gave ;  whether 
Mrs.  Morella  "  stood  as  high  "  as  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  which 
was  called  the  better  dressed ;  what  gentlemen  were  "  atten- 
tive;" and  who  was  the  greater  belle,  Fanny  Grey  or 
Sidonie  Devine  ? 

Poor  Rose  did  not  feel  at  all  qualified  to  answer  these 
questions,  nor  were  they  at  all  important  to  her,  even  if  she 
could  have  answered  them.  "  I  wonder  why  you  want  to 
know  ?"  she  one  day  imprudently  remarked. 

Marie  looked  at  the  girl  curiously.  "  Why,  haven't  you 
enjoyed  society  ?"  said  she. 

"  No,  not  always,"  said  Rose.     "  Have  you  ?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  127 

"  N — n — no,  not  always,"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau  ;  "  but  I 
should  if  I  were  like  you,  a  great  belle." 

"  I  was  not  one,"  said  Rose.  "  I  made  so  many  mis- 
takes, people  laughed  at  me." 

"  But  you  were  invited  everywhere." 

"That  was  for  my  aunt's  sake,  not  mine,"  said  simple 
Rose. 

"  Were  you  ever  cut — cut  dead  ?"  said  poor  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau. 

"What!" 

"  Were  you  ever  cut  ?  Did  anybody  you  had  once 
known  ever  pass  you  and  not  bow  to  you?"  asked 
Marie. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not ;  I  never  noticed  it.  Why  should 
they  ?" 

"  I  think  that  is  a  part  of  society,"  said  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau. "  I  knew  some  New  York  people  very  well  at 
Saratoga,  and  when  they  came  back  here  they  used  to  look 
me  in  the  face  and  not  bow  to  me." 

"  They  must  have  been  near-sighted,"  said  Rose. 

"  No ;  they  cut  me,  cut  me  dead,  because  I  was  not  in 
society." 

She  said  this  with  a  sort  of  groan  of  pain,  a  voice  in 
which  anguish  struggled  with  anger.  The  parrot  heard  it, 
and  with  a  sort  of  fiendish  mockery  repeated,  "  Cut,  cut 
dead !" 

"  Perhaps  they  thought  you  cut  them  ?"  said  Rose,  who 
was  learning  of  a  new  pain — one  which  perhaps  was  more 
hard  to  bear  than  even  a  broken  leg. 

Then  when  Rose  was  able  to  move  to  a  sofa  and  the 
window,  Marie  would  sit  by  her  side,  and  ask  who  people 
were,  and  bring  her  cards  up-stairs,  and  wonder  which  were 


128  A    TRANSPLANTED    KOSE. 

left  for  Rose  and  which  for  herself,  and  show  such  an  in- 
terest in  society  that  Rose  began  to  ponder  anew  upon  the 
vexed  subject,  and  wonder,  after  all,  what  society  really 
was,  whether  an  instrument  of  torture  or  beneficent  inven- 
tion, whether  Mrs.  Philippeau  would  be  so  anxious  for  it 
if  she  knew  more  of  it.  Rose  had  never  heard  that  wise 
saw,  "  Great  minds  are  content  with  very  little  society ;  it 
is  the  weakest  class  that  can  never  do  without  it."  But 
convalescence  brought  a  less  agreeable  person  than  Mrs. 
Philippeau  to  the  little  boudoir  where  Rose  lay  for  many 
weeks  after  recovery  set  in. 

This  was  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,  whose  flowers 
and  grapes  had  been  sent  up  most  liberally.  His  sister 
brought  him  in  to  pay  his  respects,  and  of  course  poor  Rose 
could  say  nothing  to  prevent  the  visit. 

She  owed  him  her  life ;  he  was  her  father's  friend ;  she 
was  in  his  sister's  house.  All,  all  were  arguments  in  his 
favor ;  but  she  loathed  him  as  he  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  to  his  greasy  waistcoat. 

"  Well,  Miss  Rose,  getting  pretty  perky  ?  I  hope  we 
shall  have  you  down  soon.  You  never  will  ride  that  beast 
again,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  poor  Rose. 

"  Oh,  he  broke  his  leg,  and  a  policeman  shot  him,  down 
by  Twenty-third  Street,"  said  Hathorne. 

"  Fountain  shot !  Fountain  dead  !"  said  Rose.  And  she 
turned  her  face  on  her  pillow  and  wept  aloud. 

"  Now  don't  take  on  so.  I'll  give  you  another  horse 
better  than  that  devil.  Why,  I'd  never  have  let  you  ride 
him  again,  Rose — never.  He'd  never  haf  e  been  safe,  you 
know." 

But  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  did  not  speed  in  his 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  129 

wooing  that  day.  His  assumption  of  ownership,  his  fa- 
miliar address — oh  !  how  it  began  to  fold  itself  around  Rose 
like  the  slimy  coil  of  the  anaconda !  And  then  the  tidings 
he  brought — poor  Fountain  dead  ! 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  however.  She  was  glad  to 
see  other  people,  and  as  they  were  allowed  to  come  and 
see  her,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  was  permitted  to 
come,  of  course.  At  last  she  made_  a  treaty  with  Marjori- 
banks,  which  was  this,  that  the  governess  and  Pierre  would 
always  be  in  the  room,  and  that  they  should  divert  and 
distract  Mr.  Mack  from  his  love-making. 

This  good  deed  Miss  Marjoribanks  undertook  with  great 
alacrity.  She  had  known  the  Honorable  Hathorne  in  her 
life  in  the  West,  and  she  showed  great  tact  in  talking  to 
him.  She  led  him  off  on  the  subject  of  his  enterprises. 
She  made  him  brag  and  boast,  and  fight  his  battles  over 
again.  She  saved  Rose  many  a  dreadful  hour. 

Sir  Lytton  Leycester  and  Jack  Townley,  Mr.  Amberley 
and  Jack  Long,  were  admitted  together  one  day  ;  for  Mrs. 
Philippeau  gave  a  tea,  and  invited  the  people  who  had 
called. 

Rose  had  never  looked  more  lovely  than  as  she  lay  there 
in  a  curtained  bow-window,  looking  out  on  the  sunset  with 
the  refined  convalescent  air  on  her  pale  face,  and  the  new 
light  in  her  eyes  which  suffering  always  brings.  Harriet 
Amberley  was  sitting  with  her,  and  Fanny  Grey  knelt  by 
her  sofa,  playing  with  some  flowers. 

"  Now  no  one  need  tell  me  that  this  picture  is  not  a 
composition,"  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  It  is  all  gotten  up 
for  the  ruin  of  our  peace  of  mind.  My  dear  Miss  Rose, 
how  can  I  tell  you  how  I  have  been  torn  with  anxiety  lest 
you  should  never  dance  so  well  again  ?" 


130  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"The  doctor  says  I  shall  dance  better,"  said  Rose,  glad 
of  his  scoffing  humor. 

"  Impossible !  He  is  a  quack.  I  shall  await  the  spring 
balls  with  anxiety." 

Jack  Townley  was  all  that  good-breeding  and  correct 
taste  could  suggest.  He  gave  her  a  little  package,  to  open 
•when  she  was  alone,  he  said. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  It  is  too  large  for  an  engagement 
ring,"  said  Amberley. 

Sir  Lytton  sat  down  and  looked  at  her  while  the  others 
were  talking.  He  too  had  his  gift,  and  he  held  her  hand 
a  moment  longer  than  the  rest. 

"  I  haven't  brought  you  anything  but  myself,  dear  Miss 
Rose,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  laughing,  and  taking  leave. 

Jack  Townley's  gift  was  a  riding-whip  coiled  up,  with 
"  Good  Luck  "  on  a  miniature  horse-shoe. 

But  Sir  Lytton's  was  the  real  thing — one  of  Fountain's 
small  hoofs,  set  in  silver,  and  on  it  was  engraved,  "  Foun- 
tain, the  playfellow." 


XVIIL 

THE  prolonged  absence  of  Pascal  Chadwick  began  to 
alarm  his  business  friends,  and  to  be  talked  about  in  New 
York.  But  Rose,  although  always  grieved  not  to  hear 
from  her  father,  remembered  he  had  never  been  a  good 
letter-writer;  therefore  she  thought  it  not  so  strange  as 
the  others  did  that  she  had  no  news  of  him. 

She  was  very  well  now,  but  not  well  enough  to  leave 
her  room  yet,  the  doctor  said,  so  that  her  visit  to  Mrs. 
Philippeau  became  a  long  one.  She  was  greatly  amused, 


A  TRANSPLANTED    KOBE.  131 

and  also  much  bored,  by  that  lady's  questions  upon  the 
subject  of  etiquette,  none  of  which  she  felt  qualified  to 
answer ;  but  perhaps  she  learned  much  by  thus  being  made 
a  teacher. 

Mrs.  Philippeau  brought  her  half  a  dozen  manuals  on  the 
subject  of  etiquette,  all  of  which  conflicted,  and  all  of  which 
seemed  to  Rose  to  be  full  of  mistakes.  She  could  only  tell 
Mrs.  Philippeau  what  her  aunt  did  and  what  Mrs.  Mortimer 
did ;  but  that  was  in  its  way  invaluable  assistance  to  Marie. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  was  of  great  service  too.  Well 
trained  in  an  aristocratic  English  house,  Miss  Marjoribanks 
knew  the  formal  English  etiquette,  which,  although  it 
differs  from  ours  somewhat,  was  yet  a  good  guide.  She 
had  the  best  of  all  possible  styles  of  note-writing,  however, 
and  that  was  a  part  of  education  which  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Philippeau  had  been  neglected. 

"  Now,  how  soon  should  I  return  my  cards  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Philippeau. 

"I  believe  Mrs.  Mortimer  said  within  a  week  or  ten 
days ;  and  if  a  person  only  leaves  a  card,  you  must  only 
leave  a  card ;  if  she  calls,  you  must  call,"  said  Rose. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  a  house  where  three  or  four  people 
live.  Must  I  leave  a  card  for  each,  or  must  I  write  their 
names  on  the  cards  I  leave  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  don't  write  their  names.  That,  Aunt  Laura 
says,  looks  like  an  Irish  boarding-house.  Leave  a  card  for 
each." 

"  Must  I  send  in  my  card  before  I  go  in  myself  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  not  if  the  lady  is  at  home." 

"  What  must  I  do  with  Mr.  Philippeau's  card  ?"  (Poor 
Jean  Pierre !) 

"  Leave  it  on  the  hall  table,"  said  Miss  Marjoribanks. 


182  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Another  point  which  embarrassed  Mrs.  Philippeau  was 
the  matter  of  introductions.  One  book  told  her  one  thing, 
and  another  book  told  her  another  thing. 

Rose  told  her  that  Mrs.  Mortimer  considered  it  the  most 
improper  thing  possible  to  introduce  two  people  who  lived 
in  the  same  city  to  each  other,  but  that  her  aunt  always 
did  it,  considering  it  kinder,  as  American  ladies  never  will 
chat  with  each  other  as  English  ladies  do  if  in  the  same 
drawing-room,  the  latter  considering  the  "  roof  "  a  sufficient 
introduction,  and  also  arguing  that  the  two  ladies  could  go 
down  the  steps  and  never  know  each  other  again  if  they  so 
chose. 

"  Now  ought  I  to  rise  when  people  come  to  call  2"  she 
asked. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  answered  by  reading  from  an  excellent 
work  she  held  in  her  hand.  " '  If  a  second  visitor  arrives 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes  after  the  first  visitor,  the  first  visitor 
should  take  her  leave  as  soon  as  she  gracefully  can ;  the 
hostess  would  rise,  meet  'and  shake  hands  with  the  second 
visitor,  if  a  lady,  and  then  reseat  herself.  If  a  gentleman, 
she  would  not  rise.  The  second  visitor  would  at  once  seat 
himself,  or  herself,  near  the  hostess.  She  would  not,  of 
course,  formally  introduce  the  visitors  to  each  other,  unless 
she  had  some  especial  reason  for  so  doing;  she  would,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  conversation  casually  mention  the 
name  of  each  visitor,  so  that  each  might  become  aware  of 
the  name  of  the  other.  Formal  introductions  on  these  oc- 
casions are  rarely  made.  But  if  the  hostess  possesses  tact 
and  a  facility  and  readiness  of  speech,  she  would  skilfully 
draw  both  visitors  into  a  conversation.1 " 

Poor  Marie  Philippeau !  this  she  knew  she  could  never 
do;  and  she  knew  that  her  set  who  would  come  to  her 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  133 

"  days "  must  never  be  presented  to  the  fashionable  ac- 
quaintances whom  a  lucky  chance  had  thrown  in  her  way. 

She  was  not  quite  so  hardened  as  a  certain  family  in 
New  York,  who,  marrying  their  daughter  to  the  black 
sheep  of  a  fashionable  family,  whose  alliance  brought  them 
the  right  to  send  cards  to  Mrs.  Mortimer's  set,  then  and 
there  deliberately  dropped  all  their  old  acquaintances,  even 
the  grandfather  and  brothers  and  cousins,  and  have  been 
laughed  at  ever  since,  but  are  counted  in  in  the  set ! 

No,  Marie  Philippeau  had  not  the  courage  of  her  opin- 
ions. She  did  not  quite  dare  to  do  this;  so  she  wonder- 
ed how  she  should  amalgamate  set  No.  1  with  sets  Nos. 
2  and  3. 

"Ought  I  to  accompany  my  departing  guests  to  the 
door?"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau. 

"Ask  Miss  Marjoribanks,"  said  Rose.  "I  never  saw 
Mrs.  Mortimer  do  so." 

"  If  the  lady  is  of  sufficient  rank,  you  should  do  so," 
said  the  Englishwoman. 

"  But  we  have  no  rank  here,"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau. 

"  Haven't  you  ?"  said  Miss  Marjoribanks.  "  Then  why 
do  you  talk  of  sets?" 

"  I  notice  that  some  people  seem  to  be  of  greater  impor- 
tance than  some  other  people,"  said  Rose.  "  I  never  could 
see  why." 

Rose  and  Miss  Marjoribanks  had  hit  upon  the  difficulty, 
and  the  reason  why  all  American  etiquette  is  so  undefined. 
They  could  neither  of  them  tell  why  Mrs.  Mortimer  wag 
better  than  Mrs.  Simpkins,  who  was  a  conspicuous  horroi 
of  set  No.  3. 

"  Must  I  introduce  a  lady  to  a  gentleman  ?"  asked  Mrs, 
Philippeau. 


184  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  No ;  a  gentleman  must  always  be  presented  to  a  lady," 
said  Miss  Marjoribanks. 

"  Now  next  week,  at  my  dinner,  must  I  introduce  the 
people?"  said  poor  Marie,  remembering  that  the  persons 
her  guests  would  know  least  would  be  her  husband  and 
herself. 

"You  must,  I  think,  ma'am,"  said  Miss  Marjoribanks, 
"  present  them  all  to  Mr.  Philippcau  "  (poor  Jean  Pierre  !), 
"  and  then  only  the  gentleman  to  the  lady  whom  he  takes 
in  to  dinner.  However,  in  England,  Lady  Leycester  said 
that  at  dinners,  both  large  and  small,  the  hostess  should 
use  her  own  discretion  as  to  the  introductions  she  thinks 
proper  to  make.  It  is  not  the  custom  in  England  to  in- 
troduce people  at  a  dinner  party ;  they  talk  without  being 
introduced." 

"  They  never  do  that  here,"  said  Rose  ;  "  it  is  very  stiff." 

Little  Jean  Pierre  Philippeau  gare  his  guests  an  excel- 
lent dinner,  and  it  was  admirably  served.  There  the  little 
Frenchman  was  at  home.  He  never  could  make  his  wife 
speak  French  ;  but  the  ladies  on  either  side  of  him  had 
the  tact  to  talk  to  him  in  his  own  tongue,  and  he  was 
neither  vulgar  nor  inelegant.  His  wife,  who  had  expected 
to  be  ashamed  of  him,  was  not  at  all  so.  Indeed,  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  perhaps  after  all  Jean  Pierre  was  not  so 
common  as  he  looked. 

His  wines  were  excellent,  and  that  won  the  men.  Of 
course  they  all  went  away  and  abused  him  and  his  pretty 
and  violently  vulgar  wife,  and  said  that  he  must  have  been 
a  cook  when  at  home  in  France,  to  give  them  such  plats, 
and  "  perhaps  he  had  come  over  here  and  married  a  cham- 
ber-maid— who  knows  ?"  Such  are  the  rewards  showered 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  135 

upon  new  people  who  show  a  desire  to  penetrate  the  inner 
circle  of  the  best  society.  When  they  are  fairly  in,  they 
turn  and  ask  the  same  questions.  Well  may  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe  ask,  "  Is  polite  society  polite  ?" 

Mrs.  Philippeau  was  a  little  fussy,  and  was  pronounced 
by  the  ladies  as  being  without  repose,  without  dignity,  and 
without  savoir-vivre.  She  showed  too  much  interest  in  her 
guests,  tried  to  amuse  them,  asked  them  to  be  helped  twice, 
which  was  a  terrible  social  sin,  and  overdid  her  cordiality. 
These  were  her  faults  at  a  dinner.  But  she  appeared  very 
well  at  afternoon  tea,  where  she  sat  behind  her  own  pretty 
table  equipage  and  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  as  her  guests 
talked  to  her.  Rebecca  Ethel  had  trained  her  teas  on  the 
English  fashion,  where  afternoon  tea  is  understood.  The 
little  business  of  the  tea  gave  her  an  outlet  for  her  nervous- 
ness, and  she  learned  not  to  ask  any  questions,  but  to  serve 
everybody  silently  and  naturally  while  she  chatted  of  the 
events  of  the  day. 

Jack  Townley  came  often  to  see  Mrs.  Philippeau.  He 
found  her  very  pretty.  Not  a  pin  did  he  care  for  her  early 
unconventionalities ;  he  knew  they  would  all  wear  them- 
selves off  in  a  short  time.  They  were  not  appalling,  like 
those  of  Rose,  which  came  the  nearer  to  him  that  he  had 
been  even  then  a  little  in  love  with  Rose.  Here  was  new 
game  for  Jack  Townley — a  very  pretty  and  very  rich  young 
married  woman,  married  to  a  square-faced  little  Frenchman 
of  decidedly  plebeian  appearance.  He  saw  many  good  din- 
ners and  many  afternoon  teas  before  him  in  that  elegant 
and  even  sumptuous  house.  He  was  not  averse,  either,  to 
pleasing  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,  nor  to  the  chance 
of  seeing  Rose,  who  was  occasionally  visible. 

It  was  to  him  that  Mrs.  Philippeau  carried  some  of  hei 


180  A    TRANSPLANTED    RO8B. 

society  distresses,  and,  as  she  was  very  pretty,  he  did  not 
laugh  at  her,  but  helped  her. 

"  Don't  be  too  polite  to  people,"  said  he. 

"  Not  too  polite !"  said  Marie,  opening  her  eyes. 

"  No ;  be  a  little  insolent.  Your  new  friends  will  like 
you  a  great  deal  better.  Now  you  must  forgive  me,  dear 
Mrs.  Philippeau,  if  I  am  a  little  prosy.  We  have  made  a 
new  departure  in  America.  On  the  Continent,  any  man, 
whether  you  know  him  or  not,  who  crosses  your  threshold 
with  friendly  intent,  is  your  guest,  and  you  are  bound  to 
treat  him  with  the  truest  respect.  Here,  half  your  ac- 
quaintances will  respect  and  like  you  better  if  you  treat 
them  very  badly." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Marie,  opening  her  pretty  eyes. 

"  Because  they  will  think  you  think  so  well  of  yourself 
that  you  think  very  ill  of  them." 

"I  cannot  Imagine  such  a  state  of  things,"  said 
Marie. 

"Wait,  then,  till  you  see  certain  hostesses,  and  the  way 
they  treat  the  persons  they  invite  to  their  houses,"  said  Jack 
Townley,  anxious  to  prepare  Mrs.  Philippeau  for  her  own 
sorrows. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau,  remembering  one  of 
the  few  adages  that  she  had  learned  at  the  boarding-school 
to  which  Hathorne  Mack  had  sent  her,  "  that  a  lady  was 
always  bound  to  be  polite  in  her  own  house." 

"An  exploded  idea  of  our  grandmothers,"  said  Mr. 
Townley.  "Now,  again,  on  the  Continent,  your  host's 
friends  are  your  friends.  When  I  enter  a  room  in  Paris,  I 
have  a  right  to  speak  to  everybody  present.  The  friend- 
ship of  your  host  is  enough.  But  here  I  should  no  more 
speak  to  a  man  whom  I  met  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's,  without  an 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  187 

introduction,  than  I  should  slap  him  on  the  back.  And 
imagine  two  ladies  speaking  in  your  parlor  !" 

Poor  Mrs.  Philippeau  went  to  her  first  ball  after  this, 
and  endured  all  the  snubs,  cold  shoulders,  and  almost  cuts 
which  are  served  out  so  liberally  to  the  new-comers,  while 
Jean  Pierre  cooled  his  heels  outside  looking  in  at  the 
dancers. 

Ah,  if  it  had  been  under  the  walnuts  of  sunny  Provence, 
how  he  would  have  liked  to  waltz  with  his  own  Marie ! 

He  thought  she  looked  prettier  than  anybody  there,  and 
the  diamond  necklace  was  becoming.  But  she  sat  alone, 
and  there  was  a  frown  on  her  brow.  She  had  told  him 
not  to  come  near  her ;  so  he  did  not  dare  to  go  and  com- 
fort her,  to  take  her  some  champagne,  and  to  dance  with 
her.  And  none  of  the  ladies  who  had  dined  with  him 
seemed  to  know  him,  or  to  remember  his  existence  at  all. 

Presently  Jack  Townley  approached  the  lonely  woman, 
and  asked  her  to  dance.  Ah,  how  glad  was  poor  Jean 
Pierre  to  have  his  little  wife  "  taken  out,"  and  to  see  her 
brow  clear!  And  he  rejoiced  to  look  at  her  as  she  danced. 

"  That  is  a  nice  Mr.  Jaques  Townley,"  said  he ;  "  ze  best 
of  zem  all,  to  be  kind  to  my  Marie."  He  spoke  out  loud 
in  his  pleasure,  and  as  he  did  so  a  quiet-looking  gentleman 
stopped  and  extended  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Philippeau — Mr.  Amberley.  I  have  been  at  your 
house  several  times.  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself.  A 
very  pretty  ball?  Yes.  Mrs.  Philippeau  is,  I  see,  enjoy- 
ing herself.  Suppose  we  step  in  to  supper  ?" 

"  I  declare,  Marie,"  said  Jean  Pierre,  as  they  drove  home, 
"  one  man  did  speak  to  me." 


138  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 


ROSE  was  made  the  confidante  of  all  Mrs.  Philippeau's 
distresses.  They  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  caricature  of  her 
own  sufferings,  and  to  make  the  whole  business  of  "  suc- 
cess in  society  "  a  foolish  and  absurd  ambition,  a  poor 
thing.  We  are  very  apt  to  judge  of  ourselves  and  our 
motives  *as  artists  do  of  their  pictures,  by  holding  them  up 
to  a  mirror.  The  reflection  shows  us  wherein  lies  the  bad 
drawing.  Mrs.  Philippeau  was  a  rather  distorted  mirror, 
to  be  sure;  what  we  call  "an  unbecoming  looking-glass," 
of  which  every  lady  has  seen  at  least  one  specimen. 

To  see  her  late  ambitions,  which  were  honest  enough  in 
her  own  simple  way  of  thinking,  reflected  back  to  her 
from  the  vulgar,  uneducated,  and  selfish  soul  of  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau, gave  Rose  (who  was  rather  morbid  and  nervous 
from  her  long  and  suffering  imprisonment  in  a  plaster 
jacket,  which  the  surgeons  had  deemed  necessary  to  the 
broken  leg)  a  great  sense  of  shame. 

It  seemed  so  indelicate  to  hear  Mrs.  Philippeau  complain 
because  people  did  not  invite  her.  Rose  felt  as  if  she 
ought  not  to  listen  to  her  when  she  said,  "  Well,  I  suppose 
she  didn't  think  I  was  good  enough  for  her,"  or,  "He 
wouldn't  have  treated  Mrs.  Mortimer  so,"  or,  "  Why  don't 
the  Amberleys  ask  me  to  dinner?"  etc. — remarks  which 
Mrs.  Philippeau  continually  made. 

She  was  a  self-tormentor,  this  pretty  little  woman,  wear* 
ing  her  soul  out  to  enter  that  society  which  was  carelessly 
and  selfishly  indifferent  to  her.  Even  the  extraordinary 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  188 

luck  which  had  partly  pried  open  the  closely  shut  doors 
of  fashion  was  to  her  but  an  aggravation,  for  she  heard  of 
thousands  of  things  to  which  she  was  not  invited,  and  she 
saw  that  her  presence  at  a  ball  or  party  was  looked  upon 
rather  as  an  intrusion.  She  was  not  yet  "  one  of  us" — a 
phrase  which  she  often  heard  her  guests  use.  She  was  like 
the  traveller  in  Mexico  who,  in  order  to  climb  a  mountain, 
must  pull  himself  up  by  the  prickly  cactus,  and  through 
a  jungle  of  cruel  spines,  all  of  which  wound  and  tear  the 
flesh. 

The  dear  little  Pierre,  who  had  grown  very  intimate 
with  Rose  during  her  illness,  used  to  jump  into  his 
mother's  lap,  and  seeing  her  brow  knit  and  lips  contracted, 
would,  with  a  child's  instinctive  sympathy,  try  to  smooth 
away  the  irritation. 

"  Come,  pretty  mamma,"  he  would  say,  "  throw  away 
these  naughty  letters  that  make  you  so  unhappy  " — as  the 
smooth  white  cards  came  in,  and  on  being  opened  proved 
to  be  not  the  ones  Mrs.  Philippeau  desired — "  throw  them 
all  away,  and  come  play  with  Rose  and  me." 

"  Oh,  Pierre,  go  away  !  go  away  !  What  do  you  know 
of  society  ?  Why  shouldn't  Miss  Fanny  Grey  invite  me  ?" 

Then  she  would  call  her  little  dog  Pink,  and  tucking 
him  under  her  arm  with  far  more  tenderness  than  she  had 
shown  Pierre,  the  poor  foolish  Marie  would  go  down  stairs 
to  see  Jack  Townley,  who  now  came  in  every  afternoon  to 
drink  tea  with  the  pretty  woman,  to  look  out  the  window 
with  her  to  see  the  world  go  by,  and  to  tell  her  who  were 
the  occupants  of  the  various  victorias  arid  broughams,  car- 
riages, T-carts,  tilburys,  and  four-in-hands  which  swept  up 
the  broad  and  varied  panorama  of  Fifth  Avenue. 

"There   goes    Louisa   Wallace,"    said   Marie,  bitterly. 


140  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  She  is  an  old  friend  of  mine ;  but  when  she  married  into 
the  Rigton  family  she  cut  me." 

"  Well,  she  knew  how  to  do  that,  she  had  been  so  often 
cut  herself,"  said  Jack  Townley,  laughing.  "  She  was 
married  for  her  money  by  that  dreadful  dead-beat  Pony 
Rigton,  as  we  call  him.  Of  course  his  family  were  pre- 
cious glad  to  have  Pony  taken  care  of ;  so  they  went  the 
entire  figure,  and  invited  all  the  Wallaces.  Old  Wallace 
has  paid  down  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  every  invi- 
tation he  and  his  wife  have  received,  I  dare  say,  for  Pony 
would  not  sell  his  connection  cheap.  But  never  mind 
Mrs.  Rigton.  If  you  want  her  back,  Mrs.  Philippeau,  I 
will  see  that  she  calls." 

"  Will  you  ?"  said  Marie,  most  exultantly.  "  I  wish  you 
would." 

"  So  you  still  like  her,  do  you  ?"  asked  Jack. 

"  No,  I  do  not.  I  hate  her.  But  I  want  to  see  her 
humbled.  I  want  her  to  be  obliged  to  call  here." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Philippeau!"  said  Jack,  coloring  a 
little  at  this  naive  expose,  "I  should  call  it  anything  else 
but  a  humbling  process,  her  being  allowed  to  call  on  you." 

"I  suppose  she  thinks  I  am  not  in  society,"  said  poor 
Marie. 

"  Next  year  she  will  know  that  you  are,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Philippeau.  What  would  society  be  if  it  had  not  always 
the  opportunity  of  attaching  to  itself  new  and  delightful 
acquisitions  ?  I  should  be  in  despair  if  society  were  to  re- 
main an  old  and  formal  institution  that  could  not  grow." 

"  I  do  not  think  Louisa's  mother  is  much  of  an  acquisi- 
tion to  it,"  said  Marie. 

"  No ;  those  are  the  necessary  evils ;  what  you  call,  on 
oyster  shells,  accretions.  You  see,  Rigton  wanted  the 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  141 

pearl  in  the  oyster,  that  is,  he  wanted  money ;  so  he  took 
with  it  the  oyster,  that  is,  your  friend  Louisa,  and  with  her 
those  not  too  ornamental  shells  her  parents  —  don't  you 
see  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Townley,  how  fanny  you  are  !"  said  Marie, 
who  relished  this  sort  of  wit  extremely. 

"You  may  be  assured,  Mrs.  Philippeau,  that  next  year 
Mrs.  Rigton  will  ask  you  to  be  on  two  charities,  and  on 
one  ball-ticket  as  lady  patroness,  and  then  she  will  ask  you 
to  buy  several  tickets,  and  also  to  subscribe  to  the  '  Help- 
ing Hand  to  One-armed  Plasterers  ;'  and,  if  I  were  you,  I 
would  subscribe  largely  to  one  of  her  charities,  and  be  very 
disagreeable  about  the  other  three,  and  say  that  you  think 
they  are  too  mixed." 

"  Why  should  I  say  that  ?"  said  Marie,  opening  her  eyes 
very,  very  wide. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  notice  they  always  do  it,"  said  Jack, 
remembering  the  haughty  sneers  of  several  ladies  who,  on 
their  first  admission  to  parties  of  a  more  exclusive  character 
than  any  which  they  had  before  attended,  declared  that 
they  were  "  very  mixed." 

"How  you  must  enjoy  being  in  society!"  said  Marie, 
looking  at  him  as  a  neophyte  of  the  old  Egyptian  worship 
might  have  looked  at  the  high-priest,  he  who  knew  all  the 
mysteries  and  the  secrets  of  that  dreadful  inner  sanctuary, 
he  who  had  gazed  upon  the  holy  of  holies. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Jack.  "  It  is  very  heartless. 
Sometimes  I  hate  it,  and  run  off  to  the  plains  and  shoot 
buffaloes.  They  at  least  are  sincere." 

"  That  is  where  you  met  Rose  ?"  asked  Marie,  fur- 
tively. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  forgetting  himself  a  moment — "  a 
10 


142  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

beautiful  vision  in  a  hammock  swinging  under  a  great  tree, 
and  afterwards  we  scampered  about  on  horseback.  The 
lamented  Fountain  was  a  fine  horse ;  and  oh,  how  she  rode 
him !  He  might  better  have  stayed  out  there ;  and  per- 
haps so  had  she." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?     She  wanted  to  see  society." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Jack,  awaking  from  his  self-indulgent 
reverie,  and  feeling  that  he  was  not  playing  his  part  very 
well ;  "  of  course,  so  she  did-.  Yes,  and  she  has  had  a 
wonderful  success  —  perfectly  wonderful.  No  one  has 
stirred  up  society  like  Rose  Chadwick  for  a  long  time." 

"  I  wonder  why  ?"  said  Marie. 

"  Well,  she  was  a  novelty,  and  well  introduced,"  said 
Jack.  "  There  were  all  sorts  of  rumors  about  her.  Her 
father  is  one  day  a  millionaire,  and  the  next  day  nothing. 
And  then  your  brother,  the  Hon.  Hathorne  Mack,  is  known 
to  be  in  love  with  her ;  that  gives  her  a  certain  prestige. 
And  now  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  is  following  suit.  Then 
she  made  a  great  success  in  the  private  theatricals,  after 
having  made  several  social  blunders :  you  heard  about  the 
epergne,  etc.,  etc.  If  any  one  can  be  talked  about  for  any 
singularity,  it  is  sometimes  a  great  help  in  this  tremen- 
dously crowded  and  monotonous  world.  And  then  she  is 
so  very,  very  pretty." 

Marie  rose  suddenly,  and  rang  the  bell  violently.  "  Lud- 
ley !"  said  she. 

A  servant  came  instantly,  dressed  to  perfection  in  a  neat 
brown  livery,  and  shod  with  silence. 

"  Tell  Miss  Marjoribanks  I  want  Mr.  Pierre  to  go  out  for 
his  walk,"  said  Mrs.  Philippeau. 

"I  must  compliment  you  on  your  service,"  said  Jack 
Townley.  "  That  man  is  perfection ;  he  seems  to  be  in 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  143 

the  atmosphere,  he  comes  so  quickly  " — as  indeed  he  did, 
having  been  listening  just  outside. 

Meantime  the  room  above  held  a  happy  pair — Rose  and 
Pierre  ;  the  latter,  listening  to  the  most  delightful  fairy 
story  that  ever  was  written,  as  Rose,  holding  one  of  his 
dear  little  chubby,  sympathetic  hands,  comforted  the 'boy 
for  the  absence  of  the  mamma  whom  he  loved  (but  who 
cared  much  less  for  him  than  she  did  for  an  invitation  to 
the  Mortimers')  by  reading  aloud  to  him. 

Pink,  the  dog,  accompanied  the  footman  up-stairs,  as  the 
unwelcome  message  came  to  poor  Pierre  that  he  was  to  go 
out  and  walk  with  Miss  Marjoribanks,  whom  he  hated. 

Rose  told  Ludley  to  go  in  search  of  Miss  Marjoribanks 
while  she  finished  the  few  remaining  words  of  the  story. 

"  Rose,"  said  Pierre,  sadly,  looking  at  Pink,  "  what  is 
society  ?  Is  it  a  dog  ?" 

He  remembered  that  his  mamma  always  dropped  him 
and  caught  up  the  little  shock-headed  Scotch  terrier  when 
she  talked  of  society. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is,  Pierre,"  said  Rose,  laughing,  "  a  very 
snarling,  bad-tempered,  and  treacherous  little  dog  some- 
times. But  no,  not  always;  it  is  an  amusing  dog  too,  and 
a  generous  one  occasionally.  In  fact,  Pierre,  there  are 
many  varieties  of  both  society  and  dogs." 

Miss  Marjoribanks  could  not  be  found,  and  Fifine,  the 
French  maid,  was  summoned,  who  sulkily  dressed  poor 
Pierre,  and  took  him  off  for  a  gloomy  walk.  His  lovely 
afternoon  was  spoiled. 

No  sooner  had  he  left  her  than  Rose  heard  the  hateful 
voice  of  Hathorne  Mack  on  the  stairs.  He  was  coming — he 
was  coming  to  Mrs.  Philippeau's  boudoir,  and  she  was  alone ! 


144  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

She  had  stipulated  with  Marie  that  this  should  never 
happen.  Indeed,  she  had  enlisted  her  old  governess  on 
her  side,  and  had  requested  that  one  or  both  should  be 
with  her  when  any  gentleman  called.  They  had  enough 
womanhood  in  them  to  accede  to  this  request,  and  she  had 
hitherto  been  spared  a  tete-a-tete.  Now  it  was  inevitable. 
Even  Pierre,  her  little  guardian,  was  gone,  and  she  was 
helpless.  She  could  not  even  rise  to  ring  a  bell. 

A  quick  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack  entered.  He  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  side  of  her  sofa, 
and  began  talking  at  once  in  a  thick,  husky  voice. 

He  was  agitated  and  nervous.  She  could  see  that  im- 
mediately. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Rose,  how  are  we  getting  on?  I  want 
to  know  all  about  it,  you  know ;  tell  me,  what  do  the 
doctors  say  ?  You  know  I  saved  your  life,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  know  all  about  you." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Rose.  "  I  am  going  back  to  Aunt 
Laura  next  week." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that — I  don't  know  ;  I  don't 
like  that  stiff  old  aunt  of  yours.  She  didn't  treat  Pascal 
well  I  don't  know  why  Pascal  ever  let  you  come  and 
stay  with  her." 

"  I  shall  go  next  week,"  said  Rose,  trembling  all  over. 

"  Now,  Rose,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  we  have  got  to  come  to 
an  understanding.  I  intend  to  make  you  my  wife..  Your 
father  wants  it — and  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  if  he 
didn't.  I  know  how  to  handle  Pascal  Chadwick.  I  don't 
ask  you  to  love  me;  I  don't  care  whether  you  do  or  not. 
You  will,  fast  enough,  when  you  see  the  diamonds  I  have 
bought  you.  There  ain't  a  girl  in  New  York  would  refuse 
those  diamonds.  And  I  am  going  to  settle  half  a  million 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  145 

on  you,  and  give  you  the  best  house  in  New  York.  You 
may  go  to  Paris  every  year,  and  have  all  the  dresses 
you  want,  and  all  the  horses.  But  I  am  going  to  be 
master.  Nobody  ever  resisted  Hathorne  Mack  yet,  nor 
ever  will,  by  Jove !" 

Rose  recoiled  as  far  as  the  couch  would  allow  hev  to  do 
so.  "I  will  never  marry  you,  Mr.  Mack — never !"  said  she, 
resolutely. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  said  he,  with  a  coarse  laugh.  "  I 
have  seen  coy  girls  before.  Why,  here  is  our  engagement 
ring."  And  be  took  a  box  out  of  his  pocket,  and  showed 
her  an  immense  diamond,  which  he  playfully  tried  to  put 
on  her  finger.  Rose  resisted  violently,  and  taking  box  and 
ring  forcibly  in  her  own  rather  vigorous  right  hand,  she 
threw  both  over  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack's  head.  A 
loud  crack  resounded  through  the  room. 

The  lover  suddenly  looked  behind  him,  and  both  he  and 
Rose  were  appalled  to  see  that  the  diamond  had  struck  a 
large  mirror,  and  had  broken  it  into  a  dozen  pieces. 

"  Bad  luck,  Miss  Rose,  to  this  house,  where  you  have 
been  so  well  treated,"  said  he. 

"  Bad  manners  too,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  Rose ;  "  but 
I  hope  that  you  know  that  I  will  never  marry  you." 

"  I  know  that  you  will,"  said  he.  "  Rose,  I  hold  the 
fortunes,  the  future,  even  the  life,  of  your  father  in  my 
hands.  I  can  ruin  yon  both.  I  am  more  powerful  than 
you  think.  Now  you  shall  marry  me  !" 

"  I  can  refuse  at  the  altar,  if  you  drag  me  there,"  said 
Rose.  "  It  is  cowardly  for  you  to  come  here,  where  I  am 
lying  helpless  and  alone,  to  urge  a  marriage  which  I  ab- 
hor. But  we  do  not  live  in  an  age  when  girls  can  be  com- 
pelled to  marry  men,  Mr.  Mack.  I  defy  you !" 


146  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

The  man,  brutal  as  he  was,  shrank  before  those  brilliant, 
courageous  eyes. 

"  Come  now,  Rose,  forgive  me ;  I  was  too  ardent  and  too 
fierce.  Come,  let  us  kiss  and  be  friends."  And  he  bent 
over  her  couch  and  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

Up  to  this  time  Rose  had  kept  back  her  last  best  weap- 
on, a  woman's  weapon,  which  never  deserts  her.  She 
screamed  loud  and  long — a  scream  which  would  have  been 
efficacious  in  case  of  fire.  It  was  answered  in  a  way  which 
neither  of  the  high  contending  parties  had  anticipated.  A 
number  of  portieres  hung  before  the  various  doors,  which 
opened  into  the  prettiest  little  boudoir  in  New  York,  and 
at  this  crisis  one  of  them  was  swung  back  on  its  rings  with 
a  loud  clatter.  From  behind  it,  as  pale  as  death,  with  a 
singular  fire  in  her  eyes,  stepped  Miss  Marjoribanks.  She 
did  not  speak,  but  she  looked  at  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  acquaintance  with  him  Rose 
saw  the  powerful  financier,  the  great  railroadist,  the  poli- 
tician, quake.  This  red-haired  English  girl  looked  at  him 
silently,  but  with  eyes  which  burned  like  coals. 

"So  you've  been  eavesdropping,  have  you?"  said  he; 
and  snatching  up  his  hat,  he  suddenly  left  the  room. 

"  Thank  you,  Rebecca,"  said  Rose,  as  her  old  governess 
leaned  over  her. 

"Aha!  my  dear  Mees  Rose,  but  I  am  sorry  you  did 
break  ze  looking-glass,"  said  Jean  Pierre,  when  he  came 
home.  "  'Tis  ze  very  bad  luck,  my  dear  Mees  Rose." 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  147 


XX. 

THIS  episode  of  an  unexpected  and  undesired  offer 
brought  on  a  feverish  condition  which  threw  Rose  back 
into  a  miserable  state  for  several  days,  and  determined 
her  to  leave  Mrs.  Philippeau's  house  as  soon  as  the 
doctor  would  possibly  permit.  Her  dear  Aunt  Laura 
was  still  very  ill :  the  world  was  apparently  forgetting 
her. 

A  long  illness  is  a  very  trying  thing.  No  matter  how 
much  we  may  love  the  secluded  denizen  of  the  sick-room, 
outside  life  has  for  us  all  its  peremptory  duties  and  its  en- 
grossing cares.  We  cannot  go  to  see  the  invalid  as  much 
as  we  would  like.  And  while  to  us  the  time  seems  short, 
how  long  it  must  appear  to  her ! — how  sad  the  indiffer- 
ence, how  cold  the  hearts,  that  can  so  forget ! 

Two  faithful  friends,  however,  remembered  Rose.  They 
were  Arthur  Amberley  and  Sir  Lytton  Leycester.  Little 
notes  of  inquiry,  little  presents  of  fruit,  a  new  book,  a 
basket  of  flowers,  a  bunch  of  violets — something  came 
every  day  from  one  of  these  two.  They  were  of  the  faith- 
ful kind  :  they  are  not  so  common. 

Rose  had  been  obliged  to  explain  the  accident  of  the 
broken  looking-glass  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Philippeau.  The 
latter  received  it  with  a  certain  sullen  forgiveness,  saying 
that  her  brother  was  an  old  fool  anyway,  and  that  there 
was  no  fool  like  an  old  fool. 

It  is  doubtful  if  sisters  are  ever  very  sympathetic  with 
their  brothers'  unfortunate  love  affairs.  They  are  not  in 


148  A    TRANSPLANTED   RO8B. 

love  with  these  gentlemen,  and  they  do  not  quite  expect 
the  rest  of  the  world  to  be. 

But  poor  Jean  Philippeau  was  very  superstitious ;  he 
could  not  get  over  the  idea  that  Rose  had  brought  bad 
luck  upon  herself  or  upon  him  by  this  unfortunate  break- 
age. He  was  always  kind  to  her,  very  kind,  and  he  liked 
her  simplicity  and  love  for  little  Pierre.  Not  a  word  es- 
caped him  that  could  be  construed  into  blame ;  he  only 
regretted  in  his  naif  way  that  the  lesser  deities  had  been 
evoked  for  bad  luck.  But  he  was  delighted,  although  he 
did  not  dare  show  it,  at  the  rejection  of  his  brother-in-law. 
Hathorne  Mack  was  his  bete  noir.  He  hated  him,  as  he 
loved  his  sister,  with  true  Provencal  warmth,  and  he  felt 
enough  interest  in  the  young  girl  who  had  been  thrown 
upon  his  protection  to  wish  for  her  a  better  fate. 

As  soon  as  Rose  could  receive  visitors  again,  Sir  Lytton 
Leycester  was  admitted  for  a  long  and  intimate  talk.  At 
the  request  of  Rose,  Miss  Marjoribanks  remained  in  the 
room  with  her,  and  wrought  at  her  tapestry  in  the  win- 
dow, far  enough  away  not  to  hear  the  low-voiced  con- 
versation, but  near  enough  to  be  seen. 

The  friendship  between  Sir  Lytton  and  Rose  had  grown 
into  a  very  warm  one,  and  trembled  on  the  border-land  of 
a  deeper  feeling.  He  knew  how  to  woo.  Youth  and  re- 
fined feeling,  and  the  sympathy  of  twenty-three  and  nine- 
teen, helped  him  along.  He  made  none  of  Hathorne 
Mack's  mistakes.  Although  their  conversation  was  by  no 
means  highly  intellectual,  it  was  very  pleasant  to  both. 

"  It  was  a  brilliant  ball  last  night  at  Delmonico's,  was  it 
not?"  Rose  asked. 

"  Yes — but  you  were  not  there." 

"  Waa  I  not  ?    I  thought  I  was,  when  your  Jacqueminot 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  149 

roses  came  in — so  good  of  you  to  send  them  !"  said  Rose, 
with  becoming  blushes. 

"So  you  liked  them,  did  you?  I  danced  a  spiritual 
waltz  with  you.  I  had  really  one  of  Theophile  Gautier's 
experiences  when  I  was  flying  round  with  Miss  Grey.  I 
thought  it  was  you.  I  really  had  that  sort  of  superstition." 

"Oh  dear!  I  am  frightened.  If  you  mistake  Fanny 
Grey  for  me,  how  do  I  know  but — " 

"  But  what  ? — that  I  shall  like  her  as  well  as  I  do  you  ? 
Never !  She  is,  though,  next  to  you,  the  nicest  girl  in 
America.  But,  Rose — you  said  I  might  call  you  Rose — 
when,  when  are  you  to  get  out?" 

"Next  week,  Sir  Lytton,  the  doctor  says." 

"Drop  the  Sir,  and  drop  the  doctor.  You  will  drive 
with  me  the  first  pleasant  day,  of  course  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  and  spring  is  coming — spring,  with  all  the 
wild  flowers.  Do  you  remember  the  violets  and  the 
anemones  at  Chadwick's  Falls?" 

"  No ;  I  was  picking  up  gold  nuggets  with  your  father 
instead  of  violets.  To  be  sure,  they  are  rather  apt  to  be 
iron  pyrites  in  my  case.  No,  Rose,  the  flower  of  Chad- 
wick's  Falls  I  found  in  New  York.  Do  you  know  what 
they  call  you  here  ?" 

"An  awkward  savage,  I  believe,"  said  Rose,  who  could 
now  afford  to  laugh  at  her  past. 

"  No — a  transplanted  Rose !  Not  a  bad  name,  if  the 
Rose  will  only  bear  one  more  transplanting." 

Sir  Lytton  looked  dangerously  lover-like  as  he  said  this, 
and  Rose  picked  up  a  novel  she  was  reading,  and  put  him 
off  in  true  maiden  fashion. 

"Let  me  read  you  this  pretty  passage  about  spring," 
said  she. 


150  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

" '  We  could  see  the  fields  casting  their  covering  of 
snow,  and  withered  trees  bursting  into  bloom ;  brooks 
swollen  with  warm  rain;  birds  busy  with  nest-making; 
clumps  of  primroses  with  velvet  leaves,  and  the  subtle 
scent  of  violets ;  youths  and  maidens  with  love  in  their 
eyes ;  hedges  white  with  hawthorn,  woodland  slopes  with 
sheets  of  hyacinths,  as  if  heaven's  blue  had  been  spilled 
upon  earth's  grass.' " 

"  Yes,  very  pretty,  especially  one  line ;  let  me  see,  what 
was  it  ?  '  Youths  and  maidens,'  etc.  Primroses — ah,  Rose, 
you  should  see  the  primroses  about  Tellisor  House,  where 
I  was  born.  Some  day  you  will." 

"  You  are  going  to  England  soon  ?"  Rose  asked, 
evasively. 

A  cloud  came  over  the  fresh,  honest,  handsome  face  of 
the  young  baronet.  "Yes;  I  am  recalled.  My  uncle  is 
not  in  good  health.  I  am  called  so  hastily  that  I  can 
scarcely  wait  for  your  father's  expected  letter.  You  know 
he  and  I  have  some  business  relations,  and,  as  he  has  gone 
to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  our  correspondence  has  been  in- 
terrupted. When  have  you  heard  from  him  ?" 

Rose  turned  pale.  "Oh,  Sir  Lytton,  not  for  so  very 
long !  I  am  anxious,  cruelly  anxious,  about  him."  And 
the  tears  ran  down  her  face. 

Now,  if  there  is  one  thing  which  a  lover  cannot  stand,  it 
is  the  dew-drop  on  the  rose.  To  see  a  woman  weep  has 
unnerved  many  a  stronger  man  than  was  Sir  Lytton. 

"Dear  Rose,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his, 
"  do  not  be  anxious.  You  know  your  father's  peculiarity 
of  not  writing.  You  know  how  he  flies  off  to  the  end  of 
the  earth.  He  is  too  important  a  man  to  be  lost.  No  one 
could  hide  him  but  himself.  In  these  days  of  telegraphs 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  151 

and  of  steam  he  could  not  but  be  found.  He  is  only 
drifting  down  in  the  sunny,  soft  Pacific,  trying  to  get  rid 
of  his  bronchitis.  Now  do  not  be  troubled." 

Rose  wiped  her  eyes,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
silently.  "  See,  what  a  cold,  pitiless  rain !  See,  what  a 
dark  gray  wintry  sky  again  !"  said  she. 

"  I  think  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  has  heard  from 
your  father,"  said  the  baronet,  kindly. 

"  Has  he  ?"  said  Rose.  "  How  cruel  of  him  not  to  have 
told  me !" 

And  she  looked  up,  and  saw  the  broken  mirror.  Per- 
haps he  had  that  letter  in  his  pocket,  behind  the  engage- 
ment ring,  and  her  wild  temper,  her  impulsive  anger,  had 
prevented  his  giving  it  to  her.  Her  deep  blush,  as  all  this 
passed  through  her  mind,  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"  He  has  been  troubling  you,  Rose  ?"  Sir  Lytton  asked. 

Rose  did  not  answer,  and  they  were  silent  so  long  that 
Miss  Marjoribanks  looked  up  from  her  tapestry. 

"  Tell  me  about  England ;  tell  me  about  your — five 
castles,  is  it?"  said  Rose. 

"  Not  quite  so  many  as  that,  yet  too  many  for  the  rent- 
roll.  Rose,  I  am  a  poor  man.  Too  many  acres,  too  short 
an  account  at  my  banker's,  too  many  old  annuities  and 
jointures  to  pay  off.  But  never  mind ;  we  shall  make 
some  money,  let  us  hope.  I  have  a  few  shares  in  a  rail- 
way which  looks  very  bad,  and  another  which  the  Hon- 
orable Hathorne  Mack  says  looks  very  well,  and  I  have  a 
dozen  irons  in  the  fire.  But — let  us  talk  of  the  chestnuts 
and  the  lime-trees  about  Tellisor  House.  Why,  Rose,  in 
May  they  will  be  in  full  bloom,  and  the  nightingales  sing 
then,  oh !  so  richly.  The  pheasants  troop  through  the  tall 
grass,  and  the  red  poppies  bloom  everywhere.  There  is  a 


152  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

chapel  belonging  to  the  house — a  beautiful  old  thing,  eight 
hundred  years  old.  All  the  Leycesters  are  married  there, 
Rose,  if  the  brides  will  only  come.  There  is  a  couplet 
which  promises  us  good  luck  if  we  can  be  blessed  at  that 
altar  as  we  speak  our  nuptial  vows.  Rose,  as  I  tell  you  all 
this,  I  feel  so  happy.  I  feel  that  I  have  no  cause  for  care 
or  grief.  I  wonder  why  I  feel  so  I" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Sir  Lytton.  To  me  the  air  seems  full 
of  mysteries  and  uncertainties;  they  cling  to  me  like  a 
shadowy  garment.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  under  some  stifling 
influence,  and  that  I  were  no  longer  a  free  and  happy  girl. 
The  Rose  of  Chadwick's  Falls  has  suffered  from  trans- 
plantation ;  it  cannot  flourish  and  grow  strong." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  nervousness.  You  are  a  little  '  seedy,' 
as  we  say  in  England.  You  need  the  fresh  air,  and  the 
enlivening  influences  of  a  drive  with  me.  Don't  you  see 
you  do  ?  And  you  must  get  well  for  the  fancy  ball. 
Now,  Rose,  one  confidential  word  in  your  ear;"  and  he 
looked  at  the  distant  Marjoribanks.  He  whispered  some- 
thing which  no  one  heard  but  Rose.  To  her  it  sounded 
the  very  concentration  of  sweetness  and  poetry,  and  there 
was  on  her  face  a  radiance  and  a  joy  which  made  even  the 
bleak  outside  sky  light  up,  as  if  a  stray  sun  ray  had  stolen 
across  it. 

Sir  Lytton  Leycester  always  had  a  word  or  two  with 
Miss  Marjoribanks  before  he  left.  She  had  been,  as  we  all 
remember,  the  governess  at  Tellisor  House.  To  him  she 
owed  her  present  position.  Rose  used  to  watch,  with  a 
somewhat  amused  smile,  the  deferential  and  awed  manner 
in  which  the  Englishwoman  received  these  little  good- 
natured  courtesies  of  the  young  baronet.  Rose  had  no 
awe  or  respect  for  rank.  She  did  not  know  what  it  meant; 


A    TRANSPLANTED    KOBE.  153 

but  Miss  Marjoribanks  was  steeped  in  the  deepest  and  most 
profound  regard  for  it.  To  her  the  young  boy  whom  she 
had  put  through  Mangnalfs  Questions  was  a  superior  piece 
of  human  clay,  and  to.  be  courtesied  to,  now  that  he  had 
come  into  his  title !  It  offended  her  to  see  him  making 
love  to  the  savage  of  Chadwick's  Falls ;  but  she  had  too 
much  self-control  to  show  it.  It  seemed  to  Miss  Marjori- 
banks that  the  young  English  nobleman  was  throwing 
pearls  before  swine. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Marchbanks  ?"  Sir  Lytton  said, 
joyously.  "Take  good  care  of  Miss  Chadwick.  I  am 
going  back  very  soon ;  any  messages  for  Lady  Leycester 
and  the  young  ladies  ?" 

"  Marchbanks  "  threw  into  perfect  English  a  few  dutiful 
and  humble  words  of  adoration  and  respectful  remem- 
brance, and  then  relapsed  into  silence. 

Sir  Lytton  Leycester  took  his  leave,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  was  announced. 

"  Mr.  Mack  wishes  me  to  say  that  he  has  news  of  your 
father,"  said  the  footman,  respectfully. 

"  Ask  him  to  come  up,"  said  Rose,  her  voice  trembling. 
"  Miss  Marjoribanks — Rebecca — sit  here.  I  fear  I  was  very 
rude  to  Mr.  Mack  last  week,  was  I  not  ?" 

"  A  trifle  childish,  perhaps,  Miss  Rose.  You  know  I 
always  found  you  impulsive." 

Mr.  Mack  was  exceedingly  dignified  and  pompous,  and 
took  a  chair  by  a  table,  spreading  one  of  his  large  fat  hands 
out  on  a  deep  crimson  cloth,  where  it  looked  exceedingly 
inharmonious. 

"  Miss  Rose,  I  hope  you  are  better  now  ?"  he  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,  much  better,  Mr.  Mack ;  and  I  wish  to  apologize 


154  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

for  my  rude  conduct  to  you  the  other  day.  It  was,  as 
Miss  Marjoribanks  says,  childish." 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  cast  a  dark  look  at  Miss 
Marjoribanks,  who  was  watching  steadily. 

"Perhaps  you  will  regret  some  day  your  treatment  of 
your  father's  best  friend,"  said  he,  slowly. 

"  I  do  regret  it ;  I  do  regret  it  a  thousand  times,  Mr. 
Mack.  I  would  do  anything  for  you — anything  but  marry 
you." 

"  Well,  Miss  Rose,  as  that  is  the  only  thing  which  I  hap- 
pen to  wish  you  to  do  for  me,  I  don't  see  as  your  pro- 
fessions amount  to  much.  But  I  should  have  told  you 
something  that  you  might  like  to  hear  if  you  had  been  a 
little  more  patient  the  other  day.  I  have  heard  from  your 
father." 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  !  Is  he  well  ?  Is  he  happy  ?  Why 
does  he  not  write  to  me  ?" 

"  He  is  well ;  he  is  in  the  South  Pacific ;  he  has  written 
to  you.  One  letter  being  lost  explains  the  whole  thing. 
And  he  writes  me  that  he  hopes  his  little  girl  may  become 
my  wife." 

Never  did  good  news  come  so  interlarded  with  bad  ; 
never  did  postscript  so  undo  the  body  of  the  letter ;  never 
did  codicil  so  revoke  will.  She  did  not  believe  one  word 
of  it. 

Rose  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  A  thought  struck 
her.  She  determined  upon  a  course  of  conduct.  "  Mr. 
Mack,"  said  she,  slowly,  "  when  I  see  my  father,  if  he  says 
to  me  that  I  must  marry  you,  why,  then  I  will." 

"  I  will  bide  my  time,  Miss  Rose,"  said  Mack ;  and,  as 
he  left  the  room,  he  made  a  sign  to  Miss  Marjoribanks  to 
follow  him. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  155 


XXI. 

HAPPY  was  the  day  when  the  long-banished  girl,  slowly 
and  carefully,  with  a  doctor  on  each  side  of  her,  remounted 
the  steps  of  her  dear  aunt  Laura's  pretty  Queen  Anne  house. 

She  was  less  effusive  now  than  when  she  had  first 
bounded  up  those  steps.  A  uniform  quietness  and  gentle- 
ness seemed  enamelled  on  that  impulsive  nature.  It  sad- 
dened Aunt  Laura  to  see  the  pale  cheek,  the  subdued  lips, 
and  a  certain  weariness  of  life  which  was  written  on  that 
young  brow.  Martha  could  hardly  keep  the  tears  out  of 
her  old  eyes  as  she  marked  the  change.  And  Rose,  as  she 
watched  her  aunt,  was  shocked  to  see  how  wasted  and  aged 
she  was  by  her  six  weeks'  illness ;  she  seemed  to  have  some 
anxiety  and  distress  within  her  eyes.  But  they  both  were 
sincerely  glad  to  be  together,  and  soon  got  into  their  old 
friendly,  pleasant  relations. 

"  Well,  now  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Philippeau,  and  all  your 
curious  experiences,  Rose,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "How 
can  we  ever  repay  those  people  for  their  kindness  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Rose,  after  a  long  conversation,  "  we  can 
best  repay  Mrs.  Philippeau  by  getting  her  as  many  invita- 
tions as  we  can  to  all  the  teas,  and  dinners,  and  balls,  and 
theatre  parties,  and  receptions  that  are  going  on." 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  laughed.  "  The  old  story,"  said  she. 
"  Social  ambition  is  the  most  powerful  passion.  But  is 
she  not  invited  a  good  dpal  ?  I  have  heard  of  her  at  Mrs. 
Morella's,  and  at  the  Patriarchs." 

"  Oh  yes,  but  she  has  not  been  asked  to  Mrs.  Mortimer's 


156  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

musical  party,  or  to  the  fancy  ball,  and  she  is  making  her- 
self perfectly  miserable  about  it." 

"  That  is  easily  managed,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  She 
shall  be  asked  at  once ;  and,  to  show  in  part  my  gratitude 
to  her  for  her  care  of  you,  I  shall  enclose  my  card,  to  show 
her  that  I  have  asked  for  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  will  come  to  you  for  more,  Aunt 
Laura,"  said  Rose,  laughing. 

"  Oh  no ;  she  could  not  have  such  a  lack  of  delicacy," 
said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rose.  "  I  think  poor  little  Mr. 
Philippeau  has  more — much  more — refinement  than  she 
has.  He  is  a  dear  soul,  so  kind  and  so  good,  and  so  fond 
of  her !  And  Pierre — oh,  Aunt  Laura,  I  must  have  Pierre 
here  some  day — such  a  little  wandering  angel  as  is  that 
boy !  so  pretty  and  bright  and  truthful !  But  as  for  poor 
Marie — well,  Aunt  Laura,  refinement  of  thought  and  mo- 
tive was  left  out  of  that  blood." 

There  never  was  a  happier  woman  than  Marie  when  the 
two  distingue  invitations  arrived,  accompanied  by  the  card 
of  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  Little  Jean  Pierre  was  glad  too ;  for 
he  now  saw  that  the  inner  door,  the  most  respectable  door, 
of  that  society  which  his  wife  craved  was  slowly  swinging 
open.  His  French  blood  had  risen  in  revolt  against  the 
Morellas  and  the  Devines.  He  saw  in  them  the  covert  in- 
solence of  women  who  were  heartless  coquettes,  and  whose 
power  had  not  an  honest  background.  He  could  not  have 
put  his  feelings  into  words,  but  he  was  as  sure  of  the  right 
article,  as  distinguished  from  the  false,  as  he  was  of  a  good 
piece  of  Lyons  silk  when  he  rubbed  it  through  his  fingers, 
as  against  a  bit  of  pretentious  stuff  loaded  with  cotton  or 
jute.  Jean  Pierre  knew  "  good  goods  "  when  he  saw  them. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  15*7 

"  A  nice,  grateful  demoiselle,  ze  petite  Rose,  and  her 
aunt,  very  grande  dame,"  said  he  as  Marie  unfolded  the 
precious  documents.  "  I  only  wish  she  had  not  throw 
ze  ring  of  your  brother  at  ze  cheval  mirror." 

Rose  was  soon  able  to  drive  with  Sir  Lytton  in  the 
Park ;  but  his  servant,  a  staid  Englishman,  was  too  re- 
served to  tell  us  what  they  talked  about.  And  then  Sir 
Lytton  went  off  to  England,  saying  to  everybody,  and 
especially  to  Rose,  that  he  should  soon  be  back. 

Just  at  this  crisis,  Miss  Marjoribanks  had  a  violent 
quarrel  with  Mrs.  Philippeau,  and  came  complaining  to 
Rose.  "Mrs.  Philippeau  was  so  vulgar  and  so  ignorant, 
and  so  unaccustomed  to  such  a  governess  as  she,  and, 
above  all,  Pierre  was  too  young  to  profit  by  her  instruc- 
tions." "  If  I  could  but  come  back  to  you,  dear  Miss 
Rose !"  said  she. 

Now  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  Rebecca  Ethel  Mar- 
joribanks was  a  good  teacher,  a  thoroughly  well-instructed 
woman ;  and  she  had  beeu  kind  to  Rose  while  in  the  house 
of  the  flighty  and  foolishly  ambitious  little  Marie.  They 
had  read  together,  and  begun  their  musical  lessons  over 
again. 

As  it  looked  now  to  Rose,  there  could  be  no  more 
agreeable  arrangement  than  this,  nothing  which  could  so 
much  remind  her  of  Sir  Lytton  during  his  absence,  as  to 
have  Miss  Marjoribanks  come  to  her  as  a  sort  of  com- 
panion, teacher,  and  friend. 

On  speaking  to  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  she  acquiesced  immedi- 
ately, as  in  her  invalid  state  it  would  be  most  convenient 
to  have  so  proper  and  so  ladylike  a  person  to  act  as  chap- 
eron to  Rose,  now  that  Pascal  Chadwick  was  not  here  to 

be  wooed,  and  that  Rose  seemed  to  like  her. 

11 


158  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSB. 

"  I  wish  I  liked  her  expression  better,"  said  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Laura,  I  always  told  you  there  was  nothing 
wrong  about  poor  Ethel.  Only  a  little  too  sentimental, 
perhaps,  and  that  evil,  poor  thing,  has  been  corrected,  I 
suspect,  by  her  hard,  hard  life." 

So  Miss  Marjoribanks  came  again  into  the  life  of  our 
heroine. 

Rose  took  a  seat  by  her  new  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's  musicale,  and  Mr.  Amberley  sat 
near  them.  It  was  a  charming  concert.  Mrs.  Mortimer's 
great  ballroom  was  filled  with  Germans,  and  they  gave 
Beethoven's  Fourth  Symphony,  so  redolent  of  spring. 
The  hymn-like  first  movement ;  the  second,  a  song  of  uni- 
versal love  and  joy  and  thanksgiving ;  all  the  breadth  and 
brightness  of  color  and  movement  seemed  to  fill  the  room 
with  the  breath  of  violets;  and  then  came  the  strong 
melodious  modulations,  Beethoven's  great  hand  imitating 
the  hand  of  Nature  as  she  unlocks  the  ice-bound  streams, 
unfetters  the  leaves  from  the  hard  bark  of  the  tree,  and  the 
flowers  from  the  damp  mould. 

"  How  miserably  inadequate  words  are  to  express  the 
delight  which  such  music  gives  one !"  whispered  Dicky 
Small  weed,  leaning  over  to  Rose. 

"  I  never  attempt  to  express  it,"  said  Rose,  who  had 
been  dreaming  of  Tellisor  House  and  Sir  Lytton,  lime-trees 
in  full  bloom,  nightingales,  and  moonlight  views  of  an  old 
chapel. 

Dicky  Stnallweed  thought  Miss  Chadwick  had  grown 
very  "  snubby,"  as  he  expressed  it ;  and,  as  he  did  not 
choose  to  be  snubbed,  he  began  a  light  rattling  talk  with 
Mrs.  Philippeau,  who  had  no  deep  reminiscences  to  keep 


A   TRANSPLANTED    EOSB.  159 

her  from  responding  to  all  that  Dicky  Smallweed  wished 
to  say. 

Arthur  Amberley,  who  had  been  delighting  the  heart  of 
poor  little  Jean  Pierre  by  talking  excellent  French  to  him, 
now  moved  around  by  Rose,  and  thoroughly  renewed  all 
her  esteem  and  respect,  as  he  always  did,  by  his  original 
ideas,  his  strong  idiomatic  language,  and  his  curt,  witty 
sentences.  She  felt  towards  him  as  she  would  have  done 
to  a  strong,  kind,  thoughtful  elder  brother,  and  some  of 
her  old  vivacity  and  brilliancy  came  back  as  she  talked  to 
him.  There  was  always  an  undertone  of  kindness  for  her 
in  his  unemotional  words.  She  felt  certain  that  he  was 
her  friend,  and  that  thought  comforted  and  strengthened 
her. 

For  Rose  had  passed  through  a  great  and  trying  experi- 
ence since  she  had  gone  into  that  sick-room.  Indeed, 
since  she  had  last  seen  Arthur  Amberley  all  the  foolish 
and  fluttering  girlish  impressions  had  given  way  before 
one  great  passion.  She  had  found  her  master,  and  she 
liked  the  mastery.  It  was  rest  and  peace,  and  yet  he  had 
gone  without  that  last  word,  that  last  promise,  that  last 
acknowledgment,  which  would  have  bound  them  as  affi- 
anced lovers. 

He  had  said :  "  Give  me  that  greatest  joy  that  woman 
can  give  to  man — tell  me  that  you  love  me.  Accept  from 
me  everything  I  have.  I  am  yours  forever  and  ever." 
And  yet  he  had  told  her  that  he  must  gain  the  right  to 
ask  her  from  her  father,  and  the  certainty  that  he  could 
marry  with  prudence,  before  either  could  speak  of  the 
engagement  to  their  friends. 

Arthur  Amberley  looked  at  her,  as  was  his  wont  when 
she  was  not  looking,  and  he  saw  "  with  eyes  kissed  into 


160  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

sight  by  love"  half  her  story — one  which  she  would  not 
have  told.  Looking  upon  her  with  his  deeper  knowledge 
of  life's  mysteries,  he  saw  that  the  37oung  girl  had  begun 
the  martyrdom  of  woman,  to  wait  and  hope.  He  found  a 
grace  unutterable  in  the  turn  of  her  head  as  she  slowly 
moved  it  towards  him,  as  if  she  recalled  her  thoughts  back 
from  unseen  spheres,  and  all  the  chivalry  of  his  nature — 
chivalry  which  he  hid  behind  a  mask  of  cynicism — started 
to  ally  itself  to  her  cause,  as  he  read  in  her  clear  eyes,  as 
in  a  glass,  how  pure  and  perfect  was  her  trust  in  himself. 
He,  Arthur  Amberley,  he  her  sworn  knight!  But  he 
would  have  died  before  these  unfashionable  thoughts 
should  have  found  utterance. 

"  Who  is  that  jolly  old  party  ?"  said  he,  as  a  stout  prima 
donna  came  forward  to  sing  a  cavatina. 

"Oh,  that  is  the  Marquise  de  Vinier,"  said  Dicky  Small- 
weed,  "  forced  on  the  stage  by  political  reasons,  family 
misfortunes,  etc.,  etc.  You  heard  how  her  jewels  were  all 
stolen  the  other  evening  at  the  St.  Casimir  Hotel,  didn't 
you? — ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  from  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  and  an  opal  from  the  Cham  of  Tartary." 

"  That  is  the  reason  why  she  wears  paste  to-night,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Arthur.  "  I  used  to  hear  some  one  who  looked 
like  her  at  a  cafe  chantant  in  Paris,  several  summers  ago, 
who  was  not  a  marquise,"  said  Arthur  in  a  whisper  to 
Rose. 

A  tremendous  roulade  and  a  sliout  of  victory  from  the 
marquise  pleaded  loudly  for  aristocracy  in  distress  at  this 
moment. 

"  Well,  she  is  pretty  good  at  it,"  said  Amberley.  "  Vin- 
ier— yes ;  I  think  the  veneering  is  too  apparent.  What 
nationality  did  you  say,  Dicky  ?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  161 

"  Polish,  I  think ;  married  a  French  marquis  —  very 
noble." 

"  They  all  are  Polish,  Roumanian,  Servian,  and  they^  all 
marry  a  marquis  of  the  Faubourg/'  said  Amberley.  "  If 
that  isn't  Cecile  Bellinger,  of  the  cafe  chantant,  and  if  she 
wasn't  born  in  Paris,  I  am — a  Servian  myself.  How  do 
you  like  her,  Miss  Rose  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  horrid,"  said  Rose. 

"  So  do  I.  Her  voice  has  seen  better,  days ;  but  she 
must  make  a  poor  little  penny  if  she  can.  Let  us  give  her 
a  recall — poor  old  Cecile  !" 

They  had  it  all  over  again,  and  then  a  ballad  about 
M  Zome,  zweet  Zome." 

"Zere  is  no  place  like  zome," 

remarked  the  Marquise  de  Vinier,  swinging  gracefully  off 
the  amateur  stage,  which  creaked  with  her  weight. 

"  Delightful !"  "  So  sweet !"  "  So  charming !"  "  How  re- 
fined!" "Such  a  perfect  lady!"  resounded  through  the 
rooms. 

"  Hum  !  hum  !  hum  !"  said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  Home, 
sweet  home ;  she  never  had  one,  poor  thing !  Whom  have 
we  here,  I  wonder?"  he  asked  of  Rose,  who  held  a  beauti- 
ful programme  in  her  hand,  all  printed  in  gold. 

This  was  a  fat-faced  young  man,  who  had  banished  all 
expression  from  his  eyes,  and  whose  limp  black  hair  fell 
to  his  coat-collar. 

"  '  Herr  Siegfried  von  Rheingold,'  "  said  Rose,  reading 
from  her  card.  "  He  gives  us  selections  from  the  Walpur- 
gis  Nacht  of  Mendelssohn." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful !"  said  Mr.  Amberley,  as  Herr  Sieg. 
fried  von  Rheingold  began  to  bang  on  the  pianoforte. 


162  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Then  came  an  unexpected  joy.  A  woman  with  a 
pleasant  face  came  on  and  sang  Schumann's  beautiful  little 
wreath  of  seven  songs,  "  Woman's  Life  and  Love,"  in  a 
delightful  style. 

As  Rose  listened,  the  sadness  seemed  all  lifted  from  her 
heart.  Sir  Lytton  seemed  to  be  sitting  silently  beside  her ', 
she  remembered  that  he  had  once  had  a  "  spiritual "  waltz 
with  her.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  her  bouquet, 
but  indulged  in  a  dreamy  reverie,  which  was  so  full  of  joy 
that  the  tears  almost  filled  her  eyes.  She  would  have 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  have  indulged  in 
these  thoughts  of  exquisite  delight,  had  not  her  fan  fallen 
to  the  floor,  making  a  slight  noise,  so  far  gone  was  she  in 
sympathy  with  the  song.  As  Arthur  Amberley  picked  it 
up  and  handed  it  to  her,  he  whispered,  "  Delightful  sing- 
ing, is  it  not?  Do  look  at  our  dear  Jean  Pierre.  Is  he 
asleep,  or  shall  we  call  it  —  reflecting?  If  any  one  says 
that  he  is  asleep,  let  us  laugh  the  insidious  whisper  to 
scorn." 

There  was  poor  little  tired  Philippeau,  who  hated  Ger- 
mans and  German  music  as  he  did  the — well,  all  compari- 
sons fail,  because  a  Frenchman  can  hate  nothing  as  he  does 
the  Germans — indulging  in  a  sound  sleep  and  a  coming 
snore. 

Rose,  now  all  dimpling  smiles,  and  thoroughly  aroused 
from  her  dreams,  leaned  over  and  touched  him  gently  with 
her  fan,  before  Marie  saw  him — a  fact  for  which,  in  his 
slow  gathering  consciousness,  he  deeply  thanked  her. 

And  Arthur  chased  from  the  face  he  had  grown  to  love 
the  strange,  subdued,  absent  look.  She  was  the  cheerful, 
gay,  laughing  girl  again,  as  people  stopped  to  chat  and  eat 
an  ice  after  the  music. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  163 

He  did  not  want  the  world  to  see  what  he  saw,  and  he 
knew  that  she  was  not  yet  strong. 

"  I  fear  you  are  very  tired,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  be  so 
glad  to  get  you  out  of  here,  into  the  hall,  where  there  is 
more  air,  if  you  say  so." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "  and  where  poor  Ethel  Marjoribanks  is 
waiting  for  me." 

,    "  Good-night,"  said  he,  "  and  '  Schlaf  wohl,'  as  Schu- 
mann would  say." 


XXII. 

THE  fancy  ball  came  late  in  the  season,  but  as  Lent  had 
intervened,  and  the  gay  world  was  refreshed  like  a  giant 
from  sleep,  there  was  no  lack  of  enthusiasm  in  the  getting 
up  of  the  dresses.  Monks,  Nuns,  Chief  -  justices  and 
Penitents,  Cavaliers  and  Neapolitan  Peasants,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth and  Matilda,  Agnes  Sorel  and  Savonarola,  Marie  An- 
toinette and  Prince  Metternich,  Hannah  More  and  D'Arta- 
gnan,  Roman  Contadini  and  Early  Saxon  Kings,  William 
the  Conqueror  and  William  Penn,  Osceola  and  Madame 
De  Sevigne,  King  Francis  the  First  and  Lindley  Murray, 
Marie  de'  Medici  and  Carmen  tripped  lightly  over  the  cen- 
turies— and  all  probability — and  met  on  the  floor  of  a 
theatrical  ballroom,  where  private  boxes  offered  convenient 
and  animated  retreats  for  the  weary  or  the  disgusted. 

To  this  entirely  new  and  fascinating  entertainment  Rose 
lent  herself  with  peculiar  pleasure.  It  seemed  to  her  fresh 
mind  that  all  poetry,  all  of  the  drama,  would  come  to- 
gether to  this  sort  of  a  ball.  She  was  sure  that  most  men 
looked  better  in  costume  than  in  black  broadcloth,  and  the 


164  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

stories  of  early  Italian  romance  had  made  a  domino  a  very 
interesting  thing. 

The  first  plan  of  the  ball  was  a  good  one.  Every  one 
was  to  go  in  full  costume,  but  with  loose  black  domino 
and  mask,  the  latter  to  be  thrown  off  at  twelve,  when  the 
motley  crew  were  to  disport  themselves  gayly.  As  the 
black  dominos  were  gloomy,  a  dispensation  was  obtained, 
and  every  one  was  finally  allowed  to  appear  in  the  domino 
best  suited  to  his  taste. 

Mrs.  Trevylyan  did  not  quite  like  the  idea  of  a  masked 
ball. 

"It  will  be  very  stupid,  gloomily  respectable,"  said 
Arthur  Amberley.  "  Americans  cannot  intriguer  ;  we  are 
not  up  to  it ;  we  have  not  the  genius  for  it.  That  im- 
mense border-land  wherein  innocent  fun  abides,  that  is  not 
one  of  '  these  United  States.'  French  and  Spanish  people 
can  be  wildly,  poetically  gay,  and  yet  not  vulgar  or  im- 
proper. In  Italy,  the  Carnival  fun,  the  mystery  of  the 
mask,  the  entirely  feminine  pleasure  of  piquing  curiosity — 
all  are  so  well  carried  out  at  a  masked  ball.  Here  we  are 
nothing  if  not  ourselves.  We  demand  a  recognition." 

"But  the  men  are  not  to  be  allowed  to  enter  masked?" 

"  Oh  no.  Our  ugly  faces  are  to  be  shown  to  a  severe 
guardian  angel  at  the  door,  as  it  we  were  the  mischief- 
makers." 

"  Will  you  and  Harriet  look  after  Rose  ?" 

"  We  will,  we  will.  We  will  add  to  the  general  disillu- 
sion which  will  cripple  that  young  person's  belief  in  masked 
balls  for  evermore.  She  thinks  now  (poor  thing !)  that 
every  mask  will  scatter  over  her  the  glittering  dust  of  wit ; 
that  every  Shepherd  who  pursues  Phyllis  through  rose-em- 
bowered arcades  is  a  hero  in  disguise.  She  thinks  that  a 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  165 

masquerade  and  fancy  ball  will  realize  all  her  dreams  of 
fine  attitudes,  brilliant  coloring,  and  perfect  archaeology. 
Hideous  disappointment !" 

"  Why,  Arthur,  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  I  remember 
a  fancy  ball  at  Delmonico's  which  brought  you  men  out  in 
great  and  unexpected  beauty." 

"  That  was  a  peculiar  occasion,  carefully  limited  and  ex- 
ceptionally successful.  This  ball  attempts  too  much." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  know  that  I  regret  that  we  have  not 
the  talent  for  the  masquerade.  That  needed  the  '  pict- 
uresque and  gloomy  wrong '  of  the  Council  of  Three,  the 
subtlety  of  the  Borgias,  '  the  faded  freshness  and  fatigued 
king '  of  Versailles,  the  dissolute  Empire,  the  grace,  the 
deceit,  the  finesse,  of  another  race." 

"  I  should  not  regret  it  either,  only  that  I  have  to  go  to 
an  attempted  masquerade  in  mercantile  New  York,"  said 
Arthur. 

"  Where  there  is  no  finesse  and  no  deceit  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Trevylyan,  laughing. 

"  None  at  a  masquerade.  This  saturnalia  of  expected 
gayety  will  turn  out  a  failure." 

"  Do  not  tell  Rose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  unexpectedly 
comfortable  at  the  thought  of  a  staid,  slow,  and  dismal 
masquerade. 

"  I  was  about  to  suggest  that  Miss  Rose  and  my  sister 
and  myself  should  alone  know  the  secret  of  one  another's 
dominos,  and  we  could  thus  come  to  the  rescue  if  she  got 
frightened,  which  is  extremely  improbable.  She  will  go  to 
sleep  in  our  deep  proscenium  box,  I  suspect,  before  the 
time  for  unmasking  comes." 

Mrs.  Mortimer,  always  ready  to  add  to  the  brilliancy  of 
a  fete,  had  arranged  that  a  select  party  should  meet  at  het 


166  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

house  from  eight  to  eleven,  where  the  dresses  could  be  seen, 
inspected,  and  admired,  and  the  partners  arranged  for  the 
subsequent  masquerading  hour  or  two  at  the  public  ball. 

Admirably  did  Rose  look  in  the  dress  of  the  French 
Princess  in  Henry  V. — a  white  satin  petticoat  stiff  with 
gold  embroidery,  a  long  green  velvet  mantle,  with  the 
golden  fleurs-de-lis  of  France  fastened  on  the  shoulders 
with  golden  clasps.  In  her  fine  black  hair  a  golden  wreath 
of  delicate  fleurs-de-lis,  designed  by  Miss  Marjoribanks, 
who  proved  a  most  efficient  aid  to  the  costumer,  added 
a  queenly  charm. 

Arthur  Amberley  had  sent  round  his  domino,  a  very 
peculiar  one,  which  had  been  made  in  Paris,  and  which 
Rose  and  Harriet  had  copied.  It  was  of  black  satin,  with 
a  pale  purple  lining,  and  on  one  arm  was  embroidered  a 
small  silver  arrow. 

There  was  much  gayety  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's.  Jack  Long 
and  Fanny  Grey  had  suddenly  appeared  to  belong  to  each 
other  exclusively,  and  the  interesting  rumor,  "  They  are 
engaged,"  or  the  more  interesting  question,  "  Are  they  en- 
gaged ?"  became  current.  Fanny  was  very  lovely  as  a  copy 
of  Queen  Clotilde,  and  Jack  had  adopted  the  white  uniform 
of  one  of  the  Queen's  Guards.  Sidonie  Devine  was  striking 
as  a  Jacqueminot  Rose  ;  Mrs.  Mortimer  gorgeous  as  Marie 
de'  Medici — her  pearls  and  diamonds  would  have  gladdened 
the  heart  of  that  avide  princess. 

And  when  they  were  all  masked,  what  fun !  As  Rose 
entered,  her  breathing  very  much  impeded  by  her  mask, 
and  her  domino  thick,  warm,  and  heavy,  she  was  still  very 
much  elated.  That  shabby  theatre  had  never  looked  so 
well  as  now,  hung  with  wreaths  of  evergreen,  and  camellias, 
and  colored  lights.  On  the  stage  a  model  of  the  Rialto 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  167 

spanning  a  blue  and  rippling  river,  while  colored  lamps 
and  an  imperial  veiled  loge  suggested  the  arrival  of  some 
anonymous  princess,  and  the  music  of  the  Ballo  in  Mas- 
chera  invited  the  throbbing  heart  to  a  dear  expectant  ro- 
mance. All  this  to  the  untried  senses  of  a  young  girl ! 
No  wonder  that  for  a  few  minutes  Rose  was  gay. 

There  was  a  picturesque  moment  as  female  masks  came 
in  two  and  two,  and  tripped  across  the  bridge,  like  Lucre- 
zia  Borgias  bent  on  mischief.  Then  the  scene  did  look 
Venetian.  Then  all  seemed  to  relapse  into  dulness,  and 
everybody  retreated  to  the  boxes,  and  some  began  dancing. 
Rose  became  separated  from  Mr.  Amberley,  and  was  ap- 
proached by  another  mask,  who  asked  her  to  waltz.  She 
recognized  the  voice  and  manner  of  Dicky  Smallweed,  who 
was  perfectly  inane  under  his  disguise.  Others  could  in- 
triguer, but  Dicky  could  not.  Then  she  danced  and  talked 
with  a  brilliant  mask,  who  amused  her  and  whom  she  did 
not  find  out ;  and  then,  feeling  too  warm  and  too  tired, 
she  retreated  to  the  proscenium  box  of  which  she  had  the 
key. 

She  expected  to  find  Miss  Marjoribanks  there,  for  that 
faithful  creature  had  come  (in  a  black  cambric  domino)  to 
take  care  of  her,  and  had  been  early  deposited  in  the 
box.  But  neither  she  nor  Harriet  Amberley  were  there. 
However,  Rose,  dismissing  her  cavalier,  sat  down,  and  in 
the  dark  interior  of  the  box  took  off  her  hot  mask  and 
domino,  and  fanned  herself.  She  supposed  that  Miss  Mar- 
joribanks, tired  of  waiting,  was  taking  a  stroll  through  the 
galleries. 

She  soon  got  attracted  towards  the  scene  going  on  be- 
neath her,  and,  drawing  a  curtain,  peeped  from  behind  it 
on  the  motley  crowd  moving  hither  and  yon.  With  very 


168  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

little  difficulty  she  recognized  Harriet  Amberley,  Mrs.  Mor 
timer,  Sidonie  Devine,  Fanny  Grey,  and  other  friends, 
through  their  dominos.  "  Why,"  said  she,  "  was  I  so 
badly  disguised  ?"  Rose  had  not  learned  that  the  proper 
wearing  of  a  domino  demands  other  and  more  potent  dis- 
guises than  a  mere  loose  wrap  around  the  figure. 

A  noise  made  her  turn  about,  and  she  saw  two  masked 
dominos  in  her  box.  One  left  immediately,  taking  with 
him  her  own  domino  and  mask ;  the  other  locked  the  door, 
and  motioned  her  towards  him. 

She  saw,  to  her  great  relief,  that  this  was  Mr.  Amberley, 
for  he  wore  the  black  satin  domino  lined  with  pale  purple, 
and  on  his  arm  was  the  silver  arrow. 

"  This  is  a  Venetian  adventure,"  said  she.  "  At  first  I 
was  frightened.  Mr.  Amberley,  why  did  Harriet  take  out 
my  domino  ?" 

The  man  put  out  his  hand,  and  drawing  Rose  to  a  seat, 
where  he  partly  held  her  down,  began,  in  a  totally  strange 
voice,  to  say :  "  Miss  Chadwick,  I  am  giving  you  a  slight 
uneasiness,  a  temporary  fright,  to  save  you  from  a  great 
shock.  I  come  to  tell  you  of  your  father.  He  is  hiding 
from  a  great  shame  and  disgrace.  He  has  cheated  all  his 
friends ;  he  is  neither  faithful  nor  honest ;  he  has  injured 
Sir  Lytton  Leycester  irreparably ;  he  has  ruined  Hathorne 
Mack ;  Amberley,  Townley,  and  myself  all  lose  by  him.  He 
wishes  you  to  communicate  with  him.  Here  is  the  address." 

Rose,  pale,  silenced,  terrified,  shrank  from  the  strong 
hand,  which  still  held  her  down. 

"  That  is  false,"  said  she.  "  I  know  my  father.  He  is 
true  and  honorable — fantastically,  foolishly,  and  ruinously 
honorable,  to  his  honor  be  it  spoken.  If  any  one  is  ruined, 
it  is  himself,  not  others." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  169 

"A  daughter  should  plead  for  her  father.  You  are  a 
true,  good  girl.  Take  this  address,  communicate  with  him, 
and  learn  for  yourself.  But,  if  you  breathe  a  word  of  this, 
you  will  precipitate  his  utter  failure — his  death.  Take 
care!" 

And,  pressing  the  paper  into  her  hand,  the  man  in 
Arthur  Amberley's  domino  left  the  box.  Rose  felt  her 
head  swimming,  and  her  senses  going.  The  music  sounded 
far  off,  everything  was  dark  about  her ;  she  would  have 
fainted,  but  suddenly  a  noisy  commotion,  and  Arthur  Am- 
berley,  his  sister,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  and  two  or  three  others 
came  trooping  into  the  box.  It  was  time  to  go  to  supper, 
and  to  unmask. 

"Rose,  we  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere;  and 
I  declare  I  saw  your  domino  just  now  going  down  the  op- 
posite stairs,"  said  Harriet. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  stepped  in,  her  black  cambric  domino 
thrown  back  from  her  very  red  face. 

"Why,  where  have  you  come  from,  and  where  is  your 
domino  ?"  said  the  governess.  "  I  came  to  help  you  off 
with  it.  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Miss 
Rose." 

"You  are  tired  and  pale,"  said  Arthur  Amberley. 
"  Have  you  been  frightened  ?" 

His  voice  always  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  think.  "  I 
believe  I  have  been  the  victim  of  a  masquerading  trick," 
said  she ;  "  two  masks  came  in,  and  one  carried  off  my 
domino." 

"  Oh,  thieves  possibly,"  said  Arthur,  anxiously,  "  or  per- 
haps merely  a  malicious  joke.  Some  one  has  appeared  in 
your  domino,  I  am  quite  sure,  for  we  saw  the  lady  running 
down  the  opposite  stairs." 


170  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  It  was  a  man  !"  said  Rose,  remembering  the  strong 
terrible  hand.  "Yet  there  were  two  of  them."  Arthur 
looked  around ;  all  the  other  people  in  the  box  were 
thinking  of  themselves,  not  of  Rose. 

"Do  not  tremble  so.  Compose  yourself,  and  let  Miss 
Marjoribanks  rearrange  your  hair  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Amber- 
ley.  "  You  must  come  down  and  walk  about  with  me, 
and  go  in  to  supper.  If  it  was  a  mere  joke,  that  will  be 
your  best  revenge.  If  it  was  something  worse,  we  will  de- 
feat the  perpetrator." 

In  a  few  moments,  having  hidden  the  paper  in  her  glove, 
and  after  being  rearranged  by  Miss  Marjoribanks,  Rose 
descended  to  the  now  truly  glittering  and  gay  fancy-dress 
ball,  where  the  gayety  which  the  masks  had  banished  came 
back.  As  Arthur  Amberley  passed  a  quiet  gentleman  in 
plain  clothes,  who  was  really  a  detective,  he  said,  "  I  fear 
that  some  thieves  have  gotten  in ;  you  had  better  arouse 
your  force." 

At  that  moment  a  stout  lady  came  up  with  a  great 
grievance.  "  I  have  lost  a  jewelled  fan  and  a  camel's-hair 
cloak  from  my  box,  although  it  was  locked.  Police! 
police !" 

"  That  is  it,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  as  the  lynx-eyed 
detective  moved  off.  "  Thieves.  I  feared  as  much  ;  but 
you  have  lost  nothing  ?" 

The  detective  caught  the  thief  who  had  stolen  the  fan 
and  the  camel's-hair  cloak,  but  he  failed  to  catch  the  un- 
known robber  who  had  stolen  the  peace  of  mind,  the  inno- 
cent slumber,  the  hope,  from  the  heart  of  Rose.  That  paper 
which  she  had  in  her  glove — what  should  she  do  with  it, 
where  put  it,  that  it  vrould  not  burn  ? 

The  supper  was  pronounced  excellent,  but  even  that 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  171 

moment,  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  weary  dancer,  had  no 
charms  for  Rose.  The  carte  bore  the  picture  of  a  lofty 
snow  ridge  of  mountains ;  why,  Rose  could  not  imagine. 
She  pressed  it  in  a  weak  way  in  her  burning  hand,  think- 
ing perhaps  that  it  might  cool  it;  but  it  did  not.  It  re- 
minded her  of  that  great  mountain  barrier  which  shut  her 
off  from  her  father. 

"  You  have  not  enjoyed  the  ball,  I  see,"  said  Amberley 
to  Rose. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  she,  absently. 

"  It  is  an  exotic  in  a  strange  land ;  it  cannot  live  under 
an  unsympathetic  sky.  There  are  few  here  who  under- 
stand its  culture.  But  you  will  dance  after  supper  ?" 

"  No ;  I  think  I  will  go  home." 


XXIII. 

MRS.  PHILIPPEAU  had  been  very  happy  at  the  masquer- 
ade. It  had  suited  her,  as  the  English  say,  "  down  to  the 
ground." 

She  was  beautifully  gotten  up  as  Agnes  Sorel.  The 
dress  became  her,  and  when  she  reluctantly  put  on  her 
domino,  which  was  pink,  she  quite  believed  that  several 
gentlemen  were  aware  what  its  color  would  be.  One  mask 
approached  her,  and  gave  her  his  arm.  "  Forgive  this 
intrusion,"  said  he.  "But  I  have  no  other  means  to  ap- 
proach you,  to  breathe  a  passion  which  you  must  have 
seen  and  have  anticipated.  I  am  driven  mad,  reckless, 
by  the  coldness  of  your  manner,  the  obstacles  in  my 
way." 


172  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Ah,"  sighed  poor  Marie,  wondering  if  this  were  a  joke 
or  earnest,  "  where  have  I  seen  you  ?" 

"  Say,  rather,  where  did  I  see  you  ?  Everywhere — in 
your  box  at  the  opera,  at  the  theatre,  at  your  own  house. 
The  chords  of  a  certain  beautiful  instrument  are  dumb  un- 
der the  hands  of  a  man  who  knows  not  how  to  sweep 
them.  You  are  not  happy  there." 

"  You  talk  like  a  novel,"  said  Marie.  "  Have  I  seen 
you — in  society  ?" 

The  mask  gurgled  deeply  behind  his  shelter,  and  paused. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  often  in  society." 

That  charmed  word  fully  aroused  Marie's  interest. 
"  Well,  that  is  very  odd,"  said  she.  "  I  wonder  where  it 
was." 

"  I  know  it  was  one  evening  when  I  felt  very  lonely  and 
dull  and  uncared  for,  and  I  went  to  Mrs —  But  I  must 
not  tell  you  where,  and  I  saw  you — you  for  the  first  time, 
coming  down  the  stairs.  So  lovely ! — you  wore  pink." 

"Then  it  was  Mrs.  Mortimer's,"  said  Marie,  exultant,  and 
caring  much  more  for  the  place  than  for  the  avowal. 

"  And  I  felt  for  a  moment — oh,  such  a  moment ! — '  Now 
somebody  that  I  shall  love  beyond  anything  else  in  this 
world  is  coming  down  those  stairs,  and  I  shall  be  so  per- 
fectly happy,  and  I  shall  forget  all  about  everything  and 
everybody  but  her.' " 

"  Oh !  I  must  not  listen  to  that  sort  of  talk,  you  know — 
I'm  married." 

"I  know  that,  and  I  must  conquer  my  feelings  and 
go  away ;  I  must  not  stay  here  where  I  shall  see  you  and 
suffer,  and  suffer,  and  suffer."  He  stopped,  choked  with 
emotion,  and  the  last  words  seemed  to  have  escaped  him 
involuntarily. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  173 

"  I  would  not  go  quite  yet,"  said  Marie ;  "  we  may  yet 
meet  in  society." 

"  I  have  heard  before  of  two  people  falling  in  love  at 
first  sight,"  said  the  impassioned  mask,  "  before  either  knew 
•whether  the  other  were  married  or  single;  their  souls, 
created  for  each  other,  in  the  self-same  instant,  their  eyes 
meeting,  their  souls  have  rushed  together,  the  stray  halves 
made  into  one  perfect  whole,  the  life-long  ache  satisfied, 
the  restless,  yearning  hearts  finding  rest  at  last.  I  have 
heard  of  this :  have  you,  Mrs — " 

"  Yes.  You  are  a  great  novel-reader,  and  terribly  roman- 
tic, I  can  see.  But  tell  me,  do  you  belong  to  the  Union 
Club  ?" 

The  mask  had  another  choking  fit,  and  evidently  did  not 
like  so  material  a  question. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  do  belong  to  that  rather  crowded  and 
impersonal  organization.  It  is  to  a  sensitive  soul  like  stop- 
ping at  the  Windsor  Hotel :  there  is  no  sympathy  there." 

"  Do  they  play  very  high  there  ?  I  want  to  know  if  you 
ever  meet  Jack  Townley  there  ?" 

"  Jack  Townley  ?  Gentleman  Jack,  the  lady-killer  ?  Oh 
yes.  But  what  of  him  ?" 

Just  then  a  mask  arrayed  like  Mephistopheles  came  up, 
and  gave  Mrs.  Philippeau  his  arm. 

"  Good  -  evening,  Mrs.  Morella,"  said  the  impassioned 
mask,  moving  off. 

"Not  Mrs.  Morella  at  all,"  said  Marie, in  a  disappointed 
tone.  "  Why,  you  don't  know  me !" 

"  Nor  you  me,"  thought  the  mask,  as  he  disappeared. 

"  Am  I  such  an  ugly  devil  that  I  frighten  you  ?"  asked 
Mask  No.  2.  "  You  seem  distraite.  Ah,  I  know  who  you 

are.     I  recognize  the  turn  of  your  beautiful  shoulders." 

12 


174  A    TRANSPJMNTED    ROSE. 

"Do  you?"  said  Marie.  ".Well,  who  was  that  just  talk- 
ing to  me  ?" 

"The  deuce  if  I  know  or -care.  Who  asks  at  a  mas- 
querade who  is  who  ?  That  is  the  fun  of  the  thing.  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  do  want  to  know  :  do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  love  ? — to  long  for  some  one  all  and  every  day,  to 
think  of  nothing  else  upon  earth,  to  weary  for  some  one, 
to  feel  that  until  you  win*  that  person  life  is  worth  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing  ?" 

"No;  I  married  very  young,"  said  Marie,  beginning  to 
regret  her  lost  opportunities. 

"Ah,  then  love  is  tp  come,"  said  Mephisto. 

"  I  did  not  know  tlfat  tfi'ey  talked  so  much  love  at  a  mas- 
querade," said  Marie.  "  I  thought  they  spoke  mere  gossip." 

"Ah,  no,"  said  Mephistopheles.  "You  cannot,  perhaps, 
understand  that  admiration  at  first  sight.  Now  I  have 
seen  you,  and  have  learned  your  manner  and  face  by  heart, 
when  you  were  not  thinking  of  me,  and  suddenly  it  dawned 
\ipon  me  that  life  would  not  be  worth  living  without  you  ; 
that  I  must — I  must — I  must  know  you  better." 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I  am  Mrs.  Morella,"  said  Marie. 

"  No ;  I  know  you  are  Mrs.  Philippeau.  Now  tell  me," 
said  the  gentleman  in  scarlet,  pressing  her  arm,  "  did  you 
never  feel  irresistibly  drawn  towards  me,  when  I  took  you 
down  to  supper — don't  you  remember  where  ?" 

("  Now,"  thought  Marie,  "  this  is  genuine.  Where  and 
who  did  take  me  down  to  supper  ?  This  cannot  be  Mr. 
Smallweed  ?  No.") 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Marie,  feeling  herself  called  on  to 
say  something, "  I  am  so  much  in  society  that  I  cannot 
really  now  tell  what  I  ought  to  do  or  say  scarcely.  I  cannot 
remember  all  the  gentlemen  who  take  me  down  to  supper." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  175 

"But,"  said  Mephisto,  "I  want  you  to  listen,  and  to  un- 
derstand me.  You  remember  that  bunch  of  primroses? 
And  if  you  do  not  love  me  now  (it  is  improbable  that  you 
should,  for  although  I  have  watched  and  followed  you  so 
long,  you  do  not  yet  know  me),  I  have  been  to  you  no  more 
than  any  one  of  the  idle  dancing  young  men  who  have  stared 
at  you  at  church,  and  at  balls,  and  at  the  theatre ;  yet  you 
will  like  me  a  little  ?  Say  '  Yes.' " 

"  I  am  stared  at  a  great  deal,  and  Mr.  Philippeau  does 
not  like  it,"  said  Marie. 

"  What  a  bitter,  bitter  fate  is  yours !"  said  the  mask. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Marie.  "  I  am  very — I  l,!ke 
society  very  much." 

"  Ah  !  and  no  deeper  feeling?  No  regrets  for  an  uncon- 
genial marriage  ?  No  thoughts  of  a  brighter  life  ?  No  de- 
sire for  a  congenial  soul  ?" 

"  My  husband  is  very  kind  to  me,"  said  poor  Marie,  fall- 
ing into  the  trap. 

"But  is  he  capable  of  comprehending  you — now,  as  I 
could?" 

"  Your  voice  is  very  pleasant,"  said  Marie. 

"Should  you  know  it  again?"  asked  the  mask.  His 
mouth  was  full  of  chestnuts,  and  Marie  laughed  a  little  as 
she  thought  of  its  music.  "  A  woman  has  a  superior  li- 
cense to  laugh  at  a  man's  follies,  and  when  one  is  laughed 
at,  it  is  sure  he  is  playing  a  losing  game ;  for  do  we  not 
know  that  woman  will  pardon  a  crime  where  sfte  would  be 
merciless  to  a  foible  ?" 

"  Now  I  know  that  is  from  a  novel,  and  you  are  laugh- 
ing at  me,"  said  Marie,  her  naturally  rather  shrewd  com- 
mon-sense getting  the  better  of  her  ignorance  and  her  folly 
for  a  moment. 


176  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"No;  I  am  in  earnest.  Now,  as  a  proof  of  it,  I  will 
give  you  my  photograph,  if  you  will  not  look  at  it  until  to- 
morrow ;"  and  he  handed  her  a  sealed  envelope. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  indeed  serious,"  said  Marie,  as  she  put  it  in 
her  pocket.  "  Well,  I  will  own  that  you  are  very  agree- 
able," said  she ;  "  but  I  cannot  remember  the  primroses,  or 
the  place  where  you  took  me  down  to  supper.  But  then  I 
go  out  so  much.  Was  it  Mrs.  Morella's  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  mask,  shifting  the  chestnuts.  "  But  now" 
(and  there  was  a  wild  and  reckless  defiance  in  his  tone) 
"  I  must  leave  you  ;  our  long  talk  is  being  observed.  Do 
not  be  afraid.  To  you  I  shall  ever  be  faithful  and  true, 
and  neither  grief  nor  sorrow  shall  ever  come  between  us." 

As  Mephistopheles  left  her,  another  mask  took  his  place, 
and  talked  more  nonsense  to  the  silly  woman ;  nor  did  she 
suspect  that  three  scoffing  men  of  the  clubs  had  been  amus- 
ing themselves  at  her  expense. 

The  fourth  mask  was  Jack  Townley,  and  the  two  had 
the  great  pleasure  to  feel  that  they  had  outwitted  fate,  and 
had  done  a  very  ingenious  thing  because  one  had  a  black 
ribbon  in  her  domino,  while  the  other  had  a  pink  one  in  his. 

"  Well,  are  you  pleased  or  disappointed  ?"  said  Jack. 

"  Oh,  I  think  it  is  lovely,"  said  Marie,  for  a  great  deal  of 
the  complimentary  love-talk  had  adhered. 

"  It  is  a  consummate  failure  and  swindle,"  said  Jack,  who 
was  in  a  very  bad  humor. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  surprise,  his  excitement  ap- 
peared to  her  so  unnatural. 

" I  beg  your  pardon," said  he ;  "I  have  not  on  my  mas- 
querade manner ;  I  have  just  heard  some  bad  news.  How- 
ever, I'll  not  spoil  your  pleasure.  Who  was  that  fellow  in 
red  who  was  talking  to  you  ?" 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  177 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Marie,  in  an  injured  tone ;  "  but 
he  was  much  more  agreeable  than  you  are." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  that,  for  I  have  found  it  dreadfully  dull 
here.  Remember,"  said  Jack,  recollecting  his  role,  "  I  have 
not  met  you  before." 

"  I  stood  for  ten  minutes  under  that  gas-light,  as  you 
told  me  to  in  your  note." 

"  That  was  very  sweet  of  you ;  but  I  meant  on  the  other 
side.  That  is  the  way  I  missed  you." 

"  You  might  have  looked,"  said  Marie. 

"  What  a  foolish  little  coquette !"  thought  Jack.  "  Well, 
it  was  my  fault.  Shall  we  go  up  to  the  box  ?" 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  am  very  comfortable  down  here. 
Why  should  we  go  up  to  that  lonely  box?" 

"  You  are  angry  with  me ;  I  see  it,"  said  Jack.  "  You 
are  disappointed." 

"  I  am  more  than  disappointed — I  am  bored,"  said  poor 
Marie,  tired  of  Jack  for  the  first  time. 

"  Well,  I  am  disagreeable  to-night;  however,  it  is  almost 
time  to  be  unmasked." 

Marie  came  out  from  under  her  mask  very  rosy  and 
bright.  She  looked  so  exquisitely  pretty  that  little  Jean 
Philippeau  went  to  all  parts  of  the  house  to  look  at  her. 
He  had  been  amusing  himself  too  under  his  mask.  He 
had  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  walking  and  talking  with 
several  belles  who  would  not  have  spoken  to  him  with  his 
mask  off.  He  was  charmed  at  his  own  success.  He  had 
talked  French,  which  was  the  favorite  device  of  those  who 
could  speak  it  to  mask  the  natural  voice ;  and  he  was  riot 
without  a  native  Gascon  wit  and  compliment  which  went 
well.  Indeed,  the  poor  little  snubbed  mercantile  French- 
man knew  how  to  intriguer  better  than  most  of  the  gay 


178  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

butterflies  of  fashion.  But  when  he  unmasked  his  fun  was 
ended,  excepting  so  far  as  Marie's  triumphs  pleased  him. 

Supper  was  to  her  another  famous  success,  for  four 
gentlemen  followed  her,  sat  near  her,  complimented  her, 
and  were  deeply  interested  in  her  adventures,  or,  we  might 
put  it  in  plainer  English,  they  were  deeply  moved  in  the 
matter  of  making  a  fool  of  her.  It  is  not  a  noble  trait  in 
the  character  of  fashionable  men,  but  it  is  unfortunately  a 
not  uncommon  one,  this  union  of  strength  against  weak- 
ness. The  old  story  of  Mephistopheles  is  told  over  and 
over  again,  and,  for  an  hour's  laugh  at  the  club,  four  men 
had  agreed  to  work  upon  the  vanity  of  one  silly  and  inex- 
perienced woman.  Of  course  Marie  plumed,  flaunted, 
boasted,  and  tried  to  talk  "society;"  of  course  she  was 
deluded,  pleased,  and  trapped.  But  was  the  game  worth 
the  candle?  Was  it  at  all  worth  the  one  honest  word  with 
which  Jean  Pierre  came  to  see  if  she  were  ready  to  go 
home?  Was  it  at  all  worth  one  good-night  kiss  of  that 
golden-haired  child  who  had  admired  "pretty  mamma"  in 
her  fancy  dress?  And  yet,  as  Marie  wrapped  her  cloak 
about  her  after  she  got  into  the  carriage,  she  hated  the 
little  man  by  her  side,  felt  for  the  photograph  in  her 
pocket  to  assure  herself  of  its  safety,  and  had  forgotten 
that  Pierre  existed. 

"  It  has  amused  thee  ?"  said  her  husband,  kindly. 

"Amused  me!  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  go  to  a  ball  like  that 
every  night  of  my  life !"  said  Marie. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  179 


XXIV. 

THE  morning  after  the  ball  was  to  Rose  a  sort  of  crisis 
of  destiny.  How  to  act  ?  what  to  do  ? — that  was  the  ques- 
tion. Before  her  lay  the  appalling  piece  of  paper  thrust 
into  her  hands  by  the  mysterious  mask.  It  bore  the  words, 
"  Herzog,  No. East  Broadway  ;  three  in  the  after- 
noon." That,  then,  was  the  address  of  the  man  who  was 
to  tell  her  of  her  father's  hiding-place. 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  there  himself — the  bold  and 
fearless  Pascal  Chadwick  hiding  in  New  York?  thought 
poor  Rose.  It  was  impossible. 

Should  she  speak  to  her  aunt — that  poor  lady,  so  feeble, 
trembling  now  under  the  pangs  of  heart-disease,  her  life  a 
matter  of  mere  chance  ?  Rose  felt  sure  that  she  should 
kill  her  if  she  mentioned  this  dreadful  rumor. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  ? — that  was  more  possible ;  yet  her 
heart  revolted  from  the  very  idea  of  telling  her  former 
governess  anything  which  should  compromise  her  father. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  a  mere  masquerading  joke ;  a  cruel 
one,  no  doubt.  And  yet  who  would  know  about  these 
other  things?  No,  it  could  be  no  joke.  That  missive  was 
written  by  some  one  who  knew  Pascal  Chadwick  well. 
This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  had 
not  written  to  her.  This,  then,  was  coming  in  between 
them — her  father.  Should  she  write  to  Arthur  Amberley; 
he,  so  kind,  so  sensible,  so  much  her  friend.  But  no ;  he 
too  was  one  of  the  injured.  She  walked  her  room  in 
agony,  turning  over  as  she  did  so  some  cards  which  lay  on 


180  A  TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

her  table.  One  seemed  to  detach  itself  from  the  rest. 
On  it  was  written,  "President  Williams,  Charpentier 
College." 

He  was  in  the  city ;  he  had  called  the  day  before.  He 
was  at  a  neighboring  hotel,  with  her  young  cousin,  a  girl 
of  her  own  age,  whom  she  had  never  seen.  She  determined 
immediately  on  her  course  of  action. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  was  ill  in  bed  with  a  sore  throat. 
Her  aunt  had  left  her  room,  but  Rose  proceeded  to  ask  her 
for  the  coupe,  and  told  her  she  must  go  and  see  her  uncle 
and  cousin. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan.  "  I  meant  to  tell  you 
that  they  called  yesterday." 

When  Rose  reached  the  Park  Avenue  Hotel,  she  found 
her  uncle  alone,  reading  his  paper  in  his  quiet  parlor.  His 
ladies,  he  said,  had  gone  out  shopping. 

"  You  look  pale  and  worn,  my  dear,"  said  he.  "  I  fear 
your  New  York  winter  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

Rose  sat  down  by  him  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"Uncle,  you  promised  to  be  my  friend.  Now  I  have 
come  to  claim  your  promise." 

She  gave  him  in  a  clear,  succinct  way  the  story  of 
Hathorne  Mack's  persecution,  the  threats  he  had  always 
coupled  with  her  father's  name,  the  facts  of  her  father's 
silence,  his  having  communicated  with  no  one  but  Hathorne 
Mack  for  many  weeks,  and  she  told  him  the  story  of  the 
masked  ball  and  the  mysterious  communication. 

"Why,  Rose,"  said  the  president,  "you  are  writing  a 
three-volume  novel  for  my  reading.  Let  me  see  your  paper." 

There  it  was.  "Herzog,  No. East  Broadway;  three 

in  the  afternoon." 

"  Hum  !"  said  the  president.     "  I  will  call  on  the  person 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  181 

herein  named — not  you,  my  dear.  If  it  is  a  joke,  a  trap,  or 
a  device  of  your  poor  father  to  see  you,  I  shall  be  able  to 
reach  all  three.  I  wonder  if  Pascal  would  know  me? 
How  does  he  look  now  ?" 

Rose  pulled  a  little  gold  locket  out  of  her  bosom,  and, 
opening  it,  showed  her  father's  face  in  photograph. 

"  No,"  said  the  president.  "  Changed — changed  more 
than  I  have.  However,  I  could  soon  know  him  now.  I 
should  know  Pascal." 

"  But  if  it  should  be  some  agent  he  has  sent,  some  of 
our  people — we  had  a  herdsman  named  Herzog — if  it 
should  be  some  one  who  would  distrust  you,  and  not  tell 
you  the  news  my  father  has  sent.  Oh,  uncle,  let  me  go 
with  you,"  said  Rose. 

The  president  thought  a  moment.  "  Rose,"  said  he,  "  it 
occurs  to  me  that  there  is  more  of  a  plot  behind  this  mys- 
terious mask  than  meets  the  eye.  Now  I  have  had  to  do 
with  a  private  detective  here  by  the  name  of  Decker,  in 
the  case  of  a  runaway  student.  He  is  a  sort  of  creature 
who  has  eyes  all  over  him,  knows  everybody's  secrets, 
knows  your  history  and  mine  better  than  we  know  it  our- 
selves, and  who  is,  I  think,  Asmodeus  in  person.  If  you 
do  not  mind,  I  will  consult  him."  The  president  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  only  twelve  o'clock.  "  Shall 
I  send  for  Decker  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  dislike  so  much — it  might  imperil  papa,"  said  Rose. 

"  No ;  I  will  make  you  easy  on  that  point.  Decker  will 
not  betray  me  or  my  friends;  he  may  help  us  find  your 
papa,  and  release  him  from  the  toils  of  a  villain." 

It  seemed  hours  before  Decker  arrived,  yet  the  clocks 
were  striking  one  as  he  entered  the  room.  Rose  recognized 
the  man  to  whom  Amberley  had  spoken  the  night  before. 


182  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

He  listened  attentively  to  the  story,  smiled  blandly,  mentioned 
one  or  two  circumstances  which  Rose  had  forgotten,  and 
asked  her  a  few  questions  about  the  stolen  domino. 

"  There  is  a  woman  in  this  case,"  said  he,  nodding  to  the 
president.  "  That  always  complicates  matters.  By  the 
way,  miss,  did  you  ever  see  this  before?"  and  he  took 
out  of  his  pocket  a  little  silver  arrow. 

"  Why,  certainly ;  it  looks  as  if  it  were  cut  out  of  the 
sleeve  of  my  domino." 

"  I  thought  so,  miss.  Please  give  it  back  to  me.  This 
is  a  very  involved  case,  but  interesting.  Now  our  next 

move  is  to  pay  a  visit  to  '  Herzog,  No. East  Broadway ; 

three  o'clock.'  Would  you,  sir,  mind  changing  your  white 
choker  for  a  black  one,  and  putting  on  a  rather  shabby 
tile?"  The  detective  looked  suggestively  at  the  smooth 
clerical  hat  which  lay  on  the  table  near  the  president. 

"What  is  your  plan,  Decker?"  asked  the  president. 
"We  are  working  in  the  dark." 

"  You  and  I,  sir,  must  be  in  that  house  when  this  young 
lady  enters,  and  she  must  go,  apparently  alone,  and  ask 
for  Herzog.  You  must  be  courageous,  Miss  Chadwick, 
and  seem  to  fall  into  the  trap ;  for  trap  I  believe  it  to  be. 
You  need  not  fear,  for  there  will  be  a  friend  to  you  behind 
every  door.  If  you  do  meet  your  father,  we  shall  be 
dumb  and  blind ;  if  you  meet  somebody  else,  we  shall  have 
our  senses." 

"  What  do  you  think  this  means,  Decker  ?"  said  the  pres- 
ident. 

"  I  have  three  theories,  sir.  One  is  that  it  is  a  woman's 
revenge,  and  that  Miss  Chadwick  is  to  be  made  a  subject 
of  blackmail;  another  is  that  perhaps  her  father  is  in 
trouble,  and  wishes  to  see  her ;  the  third  is  that  a  bold  and 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  183 

desperate  game  is  being  played  to  compromise  her,  in  which 
case,  sir,  you  and  I  will  be  on  hand." 

"  It  is  not  like  my  father,"  said  Rose. 

"  No,  ma'am,  it  is  not  at  all  like  Pascal  Chadwick.  I 
know  him  well  enough  for  that,"  said  Decker. 

"  Courage,  Rose,"  said  the  president,  as  he  emerged  from 
his  dressing-room  in  black  cravat  and  disordered  travelling 
costume,  his  clerical  respectability  decidedly  disguised ; 
"  we  shall  be  there  before  you." 

When  Rose,  dismissing  her  aunt's  coachman,  had  en- 
gaged a  hired  cab,  and  reached  No.  East  Broadway, 

she  saw  a  large,  rather  shabby,  but  apparently  well-filled 
house,  which  seemed  to  her  to  have  seen  better  days.  It 
had  been  a  handsome  house,  and  one  day  had  harbored 
a  wealthy,  aristocratic  "  old  family,"  but  it  had  gone  down, 
down,  down,  like  the  people  who  had  owned  it.  Rose 
alighted,  and  rang  the  bell  tremulously. 

"  Is  Mr.  Herzog  in  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  'm,"  said  the  girl,  grinning ;  "  he's  in  the  third  pair 
back." 

"Ask  him  to  come  down  to  see  Miss  Chadwick,"  said 
poor  Rose,  feeling  her  voice  desert  her. 

"  He  can't,  he's  lame,"  said  the  girl.  "  He  said  you  was 
to  come  up." 

At  this  moment  two  or  three  roughs  came  out  of  a  lower 
room,  and  pushed  against  the  girl,  talking  loudly,  and  smell- 
ing horribly  of  beer  and  tobacco. 

One  came  out  after  the  others,  and  whispered  to  Rose,  as 
the  servant's  attention  was  thus  distracted.  She  recognized 
the  voice  of  Decker.  "  Go  up ;  you  are  protected,"  he  said. 

She  ascended  those  crazy  and  dirty  stairs;  she  followed 
'blindly  the  directions  to  the  "  third  pair  back;"  she  reached 


184  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

the  landing.  Oh,  was  she  about  to  meet  her  father — her 
father?  was  he  there  in  hiding,  in  disgrace? 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  voice  as  she  knocked.  She  entered, 
and  met — Hathorne  Mack. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  scream ;  her  second  one  was 
better ;  it  was  to  stand  still,  to  summon  all  her  self-posses- 
sion, and  to  let  him  do  the  talking. 

"  You  are  a  wise  girl  to  have  come,  Miss  Rose.  You 
have  come  to  see  your  best  friend." 

"  What  news  have  you  of  my  father  ?"  said  she. 

"  Well,  nothing  except  that  he  expects  to  hear  from  his 
son-in-law  and  congratulates  the  young  couple ;"  and  here 
Hathorne  Mack  gave  a  hideous  leer.  "  You've  been  playing 
a  losing  game,  Rose,  a  very  losing  game.  You  expected  to 
marry  that  English  sprout ;  now  you  see  he  was  simply  fool- 
ing you,  while  Hathorne  Mack  is  in  earnest.  Sir  Lytton 
Leycester  is  engaged  to  a  young  heiress  at  Manchester. 
He  needs  money  to  take  care  of  his  estates ;  he  can't  marry 
you,  now  that  Pascal  has  busted.  Nobody  for  you  but  me, 
Rose.  Pascal  is  a  dead-beat,  and  hiding  out  of  sight  down 
in  the  Sandwich  Islands.  If  you  marry  me,  Rose,  we'll 
have  him  out,  and  we'll  put  him  on  his  legs  again ;  that  is, 
if  he  ain't  dead." 

"  So  this  is  a  part  of  your  plot  against  me,  is  it  ?"  said 
Rose.  "You  have  decoyed  me  here  to  frighten  me  into 
marrying  you  ?" 

"  Well,  all's  fair  in  love  and  war,  you  know,  Rosie  dear. 
Take  a  chair,  and  let's  talk  all  friendly.  Now  you  see  we're 
as  good  as  engaged,  since  you've  visited  me  in  my  bachelor 
apartments."  And  Hathorne  Mack  gave  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"  I  will  never  marry  you !"  said  Rose,  retreating  towards 
the  door. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  185 

Hathorne  Mack  stepped  forward  and  locked  the  door. 

"  Now,  Miss  Rose,  you  will  marry  me,  and  here  too.  I 
have  got  a  parson  all  ready  and  a  witness ;  just  you  look. 
There  has  been  a  witness  to  this  visit  of  yours.  I  didn't 
intend  to  be  dishonest  to  you,  but  I  guess  you  can't  go 
back  into  society  and  be  the  great  belle  you  was,  unless 
you  are  Mrs.  Hathorne  Mack ;  so  just  you  take  my  hand, 
and  we'll  get  spliced.  No  screaming ;  no — no  nonsense ; 
it's  all  that's  left  to  you  now.  Here — there's  another  door 
to  this  room ;  this  apartment  communicates — " 

"  I  will  appeal  to  the  clergyman ;  I  will  not  marry  you," 
said  poor  Rose,  now  nearly  at  the  end  of  her  strength. 

"It  won't  do  you  much  good  to  appeal  to  my  clergy- 
man," said  the  brute.  "  Come  out,  Bacon." 

The  door  opened,  and  President  Williams  entered  with 
Decker. 

"  So  you  are  trying  the  bluff  game  on  this  young  lady, 
are  you,  Mr.  Mack,"  said  Decker,  blandly. 

"  Blown,  by  Jove !"  said  Hathorne  Mack,  turning  purple. 
"  Rose,  you  have  ruined  your  father,"  said  he,  turning  to 
the  poor  girl,  who  was  sinking  to  the  ground. 

"  I  do  not  know  that,"  said  another  voice — that  of  the 
president  of  Charpentier  College.  "Rose,  dear,  let  Mr. 
Decker  take  you  to  your  carriage.  I  will  remain  and  hear 
what  Mr.  Mack  has  to  say.  You  are  in  no  danger.  Go 
back  to  your  aunt." 

For  once  in  his  life,  Hathorne  Mack  met  a  man  who  was 
not  afraid  of  him,  and  who  could  not  be  bribed.  President 
Williams  had  plenty  of  pluck  behind  his  clerical  waistcoat, 
and  he  had  no  desire  for  railroad  stock  or  for  speculative 
shares  in  any  mining  enterprise. 

Yet  Hathorne  Mack  still  had  one  advantage.     He  was 


186  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

the  only  man  (apparently)  who  knew  anything  about  the 
whereabouts  or  the  fortunes  of  Pascal  Chadwick.  He 
could  still  injure  Rose.  But  he  had  been  deceived,  thwart- 
ed, and  exposed.  He  had  been  sold  by  one  of  his  choicest 
men.  Decker  had  been  "too  many"  for  him. 

"All's  fair  in  love  and  war,"  said  he,  boastfully,  to  the 
president. 

"And  you  were  saved  by  us  from  the  commission  of  a 
crime,"  said  the  president,  thoughtfully.  "  Had  it  not  been 
that  I  wish  to  save  my  niece  from  scandal,  I  should  have 
preferred  to  allow  you  to  hang  yourself." 

"The  rope  ain't  woven  yet  that  is  to  hang  Hathorne 
Mack." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Mr.  Mack,"  said  Decker,  just  enter- 
ing. "  Did  you  ever  see  that  ?"  and  he  held  out  a  little 
silver  arrow. 

Hathorne  Mack  looked  confused.  "  Has  she  turned  too  ? 
Have  you  got  hold  of  her  ?"  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  detective,  "  we  have  got  hold  of  her." 

"  Well,  do  your  worst,  then  ;  others  will  suffer  more  than 
I  shall." 

"  Whom  did  he  mean  by  '  her '  ?"  asked  the  president  as 
they  descended  to  their  carriage. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea — yet,"  said  the  detective,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  but  I  shall  know.  There  are  a  great  many  '  hers ' 
in  the  world.  I  know  a  good  many  of  them." 

"We  ought  to  keep  track  of  this  man,"  said  the  president. 

"  Track  of  him !"  said  Decker,  laughing  scornfully. 
"  Track  of  him !  I  should  think  so.  From  this  day,  this 
hour,  he  will  be  shadowed.  Yes,  he  will  neither  lie  down, 
get  up,  go  out,  speak  to  man  or  woman,  without  my  know- 
ing it." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  187 

The  president  almost  shuddered.  "  You  make  one  feel 
uncomfortable,  Mr.  Decker.  Have  you  such  power  ?" 

"  A  good  deal  of  power.  Mr.  President,  by  the  way,  I 
shall  want  to  call  on  Miss  Chadwick.  Can  1 2" 

"  Of  course  you  can,"  said  the  president. 


XXV. 

THE  good  president  had  forgotten  nothing.  Acting  on 
a  judicious  after-thought,  he  had  sent  Rose  back  to  his 
hotel  to  await  his  coming,  and  had  written  to  Mrs.  Trevyl- 
yan  that  he  should  keep  his  niece  to  dine  with  her  aunt 
and  cousin. 

Rose  kept  up  "  with  a  brave  white  face,"  and  found  in 
the  serene,  self-possessed  manner  of  her  new  relatives  a 
sort  of  strength  and  peace.  There  was  a  wholesome  quiet- 
ness in  the  manner  of  Mrs.  Williams — a  woman  who  had 
suffered  terribly  from  the  loss  of  a  son,  as  Rose  afterwards 
discovered,  but  who  had  made  her  personal  sorrow  "  turn 
the  wheel  of  an  unselfish  activity  "  for  the  good  of  others. 
Mrs.  Williams  was  accustomed  to  young  people  ;  she  lived 
as  the  wife  of  a  president  of  a  college  should  live,  in  close 
maternal  relation  to  the  poor  young  fellows  who  had  to 
meet  illness  and  disappointment  as  well  as  the  gayety 
and  success  of  their  rough-and-tumble  life.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Williams  was,  in  her  way,  quite  as  necessary  to  Charpen- 
tier  College  as  was  the  president.  Then  her  cousin,  a  plain, 
intelligent  girl,  who  seemed  to  take  Rose  immediately  to 
her  heart  with  a  sense  of  ownership — all,  all  was  calming 
and  delightful. 


188  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Not  until  the  president  started  to  walk  home  with  his 
niece  was  a  word  spoken  of  the  scene  which  they  had  gone 
through. 

"  He  will  never  trouble  you  again,  Rose,"  said  her  uncle, 
speaking  of  Hathorne  Mack.  "  He  has  made  himself 
amenable  to  the  law.  He  is  afraid  of  Decker,  also  of  me. 
It  was  amusing  to  hear  the  creature's  disgust  overflow. 
'  Bluffed,  by  Jove !  and  by  an  old  fool  of  a  clergyman,' 
was  his  not  too  complimentary  remark.  I  don't  think  I 
looked  like  a  clergyman ;  do  you,  Rose  ?" 

"  Now  what  do  you  think  about  papa  ?"  said  Rose. 

"  That  we  must  wait  and  hope.  Hathorne  Mack  evi- 
dently has  suppressed  and  distorted  what  news  he  may 
have.  Pascal  was  always  queer ;  he  did  not  ever  write 
regularly,  did  he,  dear  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Rose.     "  It  is  a  longer  time  now  than — " 

"Well,  dear,  possess  your  soul  in  patience.  I  see  you 
are  no  coward.  Go  and  lead  your  every-day  life.  Keep 
your  fears  to  yourself — for  Mrs.  Trevylyan  is  a  person  of 
shattered  nerves ;  it  will  not  do  to  frighten  her — and  pro- 
vide yourself  with  '  those  iron-clad  joys  which  we  call  em- 
ployments.' I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  study  daily  with 
Miss —  What's  her  name  ?" 

"  Marjoribanks — the  English  call  her  Marchbanks,"  said 
Rose ;  "  a  former  governess  of  mine." 

"And  what  did  I  hear  you  telling  Cornelia  of  your 
teaching  a  little  boy  ?" 

"Oh,  Pierre!  You  know  I  was  taken  to  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau's  house  when  my  leg  was  broken  —  she  is  Mr. 
Mack's  sister — and  I  received  great  kindness  there.  She 
has  a  lovely  child,  Pierre,  who  was  Miss  Marjoribanks's 
charge  before  they  —  well,  they  quarrelled.  Now  he  is 


A   n*/N8PL ANTED    ROSE.  189 

very  fond  of  me,  and  I  love  him,  so  he  comes  every  day  to 
play  at  studying  with  me.  It  is  really  done,  uncle,  be- 
cause I  crave  his  innocent,  pretty  affection,  and  he —  I 
fear  that  his  mother — well,  I  don't  know.  She  does  not 
care  for  him  as  I  should  think  she  would." 

"  I  should  like  you  to  shake  off  all  these  people,  Rose, 
but  I  cannot  advise  it  now.  Be  prudent.  We  must  keep 
your  name  out  of  the  newspapers ;  and  I  can  see  no  more 
healthy  work  for  you  than  to  study  yourself,  and  also 
amuse  yourself  with  this  child.  It  shows  a  good  heart, 
dear.  I  like  women  who  like  children.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Decker  may  call  on  you  in  a  day  or  two.  Be  prepared 
to  see  him  come  in  as  a  book  peddler,  sent  to  you  by  me, 
and  talk  to  him  about  his  books.  You  will  know 
why  later.  I  declare  I  am  becoming  a  play-actor !"  And 
the  president  readjusted  his  cravat  and  his  glasses  as 
he  rang  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  door -bell,  and  left  Rose  at 
home. 

The  next  morning's  breakfast  found  Rose  treating 
Pierre  to  orange  marmalade  and  toast,  while  waiting  for 
her  own  breakfast  of  a  chop  and  a  potato,  for  he  was  sent 
down  early  to  enjoy  a  long,  joyous  morning  with  his  dear 
Rose.  Miss  Marjoribanks,  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl,  still 
suffering  from  her  cold,  was  making  the  tea. 

At  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  Pierre  found  sympathy  and  liberty, 
the  natural  craving  of  childhood.  He  was  a  lovely,  en- 
gaging child,  a  natural  gentleman,  a  sweet,  gentle,  confiding 
creature,  contradicting  all  the  theories  of  hereditary  traits, 
unless  Jean  Pierre  had  had  a  noble  great-grandfather.  He 
needed  love,  this  child,  as  his  lungs  demanded  fresh  air, 
and  Rose  gave  it  to  him  in  amplest  measure. 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  that  child !"  said  Miss  Marjori- 
13 


190  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

banks,  almost  wistfully,  as  she  watched  Rose  dance  him  up 
and  down  on  her  knee. 

"Who  would  not  be?"  said  Rose.  "Oh,  Pierre,  you 
shall  go  to  Chadwick's  Falls  with  me,  and  you  shall  have 
a  garden,  and  five ,  dogs  and  a  pony,  and  rabbits  to  feed, 
and  a  little  mountain  goat  and  a  fawn  !" 

"  Can  we  go  to-morrow  ?"  asked  Pierre. 

"  No,  dear  child ;  but  if  you  will  study  your  spelling 
while  I  am  getting  my  German  lesson,  I  will  take  you  up 
to  see  the  little  lions  at  the  Park  this  afternoon." 

Pierre  was  all  attention  to  his  blocks,  and  Rose  devoted 
to  her  German,  with  Miss  Marjoribanks  correcting  an  exer- 
cise, when  the  bell  rang,  and  the  butler  hastened  to  the 
door.  He  came  quickly  back,  followed  by  a  gentleman, 
who  presented  his  own  card  and  that  of  President  Will- 
iams. "  The  Rev.  O.  Tyler."  Rose  read  it,  and,  trembling 
all  over,  realized  that  the  detective  was  before  her.  It  was 
almost  impossible  to  see  in  this  mild  and  sleek  and  meek 
clerical  gentleman  the  man  she  had  met  before.  Fortunate- 
ly for  her  self-possession,  he  offered  his  book  to  Miss  Mar- 
joribanks for  inspection.  It  was  one  which  caught  her  eye 
immediately,  being  an  improved  method  of  teaching  German. 

"  Just  what  you  need,  Rose,"  said  she. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Rose.     "  I  will  buy  it  if  you  say  so." 

"  But  let  me  look  at  your  other  books,"  said  the  gov- 
erness. 

The  Rev.  O.  Tyler  had  the  most  excellent  and  rare  set  of 
educational  helps  under  his  arm  which  even  the  most  en- 
terprising firm  could  turn  out.  His  conversation  about 
them  was  at  once  amusing,  instructive,  and  at  the  same 
time  pathetic  and  poverty-stricken.  He  continued  to 
throw  out  side-lights  upon  his  own  need  of  selling  all  that. 


A  TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  191 

he  could  dispose  of,  remotely  hinted  at  a  wife  and  six 
children,  until  Miss  Marjoribanks  decided  upon  a  "  Few 
Lights  of  History,"  "Easy  Method  to  Algebra,"  and 
"  Reading  without  Tears  "  for  Pierre. 

"  I  have  not  ray  purse  here,"  said  Rose. 

"  Let  me  go  and  get  it,"  said  Miss  Marjoribanks. 

When  she  was  well  out  of  hearing,  the  Rev.  0.  Tyler 
took  up  the  "  Few  Lights  of  History,"  and,  as  if  reading, 
softly  remarked :  "  If  you  ever  walk  out  with  that  little 
boy,  it  would  be  well — Park — three  o'clock.  All  is  going 
as  I  could  wish." 

When  Miss  Marjoribanks  came  back  with  the  purse,  and 
Rose  counted  out  what  seemed  to  the  Rev.  0.  Tyler  to  be 
a  fortune  apparently,  Pierre,  who  had  been  enjoying  these 
helps  to  education,  which  were  embellished  by  wood-cuts, 
looked  up  slyly  at  the  gentleman,  and  remarked,  "  You've 
got  a  wig  on." 

The  Rev.  0.  Tyler  smiled  feebly,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
departed  hastily. 

Miss  Marjoribanks,  who  had  rather  enjoyed  this  visit  of 
the  book  peddler,  was  deeply  shocked  ;  and,  in  her  admo> 
nitions  to  Pierre  reproving  his  childish  frankness,  failed  to 
observe  that  the  hand  with  which  Rose  was  writing  her 
German  exercise  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  Pierre,  you  must  never  remark  on  personal  appear- 
ance ;  that  is  very  rude,"  said  the  governess. 

"Your  hair  is  red,"  said  Pierre,  by  way  of  showing  his 
apprehension  and  obedience. 

"  What  very  beautiful,  fashionable  hair  you  have, 
Ethel !"  said  Rose,  who  still  relapsed  into  habits  of  early 
intimacy. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  smiled,  not  displeased. 


192  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"Another  note,  miss,"  said  the  butler,  who  had  already 
brought  in  two  or  three. 

"  An  invitation  from  Fanny  Grey  to  be  her  bridemaid  in 
three  weeks,"  said  Rose.  "  How  quietly  she  has  managed 
all  this !  My  first  friend  in  New  York,  my  constant  good 
friend,  how  well  I  remember  her  first  greeting  at  Mrs. 
Mortimer's,  when  I  entered  in  that  dreadful  yellow  bro- 
cade !" 

"  You  will  accept,  of  course  ?"  said  Miss  Marjoribanks. 

"I  do  not  quite  know  yet.  I  must  consult  Aunt 
Laura." 

Not  only  Aunt  Laura,  but  the  president,  approved  of  the 
bridemaid  project.  The  emotions  which  had  chased  them- 
selves across  her  young  heart  of  late  had  left  Rose  without 
volition.  She  almost  shrank  from  the  business  of  getting 
up  a  dress,  and  entering  upon  the  gay  and  frivolous  busi- 
ness of  being  bridemaid ;  but  the  president  told  her  that 
he  wished  it,  and  Aunt  Laura  almost  commanded. 

The  president  and  Aunt  Laura  had  had  their  confiden- 
tial talk. 

"We  must  amuse  her,  keep  her  mind  off  her  father, 
until  we  know  more,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  glad  this  wedding  has  come  in,  particularly 
as  she  has  so  much  reason  for  anxiety,"  said  the  president, 
evasively.  "Tell  me — I  heard  something  about  the  at- 
tentions of  a  young  English  baronet — do  you  think  Rose 
was  impressed  ?" 

"All  that  happened  while  she  was  imprisoned  at  Mrs. 
Philippeau's,  and  while  I  was  imprisoned  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Trevylyan.  "He  was  certainly  very  fond  of  her,  I 
thought,  but  Rose  is  singularly  reticent;  of  her  deeper 
feelings  I  know  nothing.  I  only  know  that  she  is  very 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  198 

sweet,  and  the  most  improved  person.  She  '  takes  a 
polish '  easily.  Do  you  not  find  her  improved  and  well- 
mannered  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  president ;  "  she  pleases  me.  Bnt  has 
not  the  polish  been  applied  rather  too  severely?  I  miss 
some  little  excrescences  of  manner  which  I  admired,  and  I 
find  her  too  pale  and  quiet.  Are  you  not  rubbing  her 
down  too  smooth  I" 

"  Circumstances  have  been  '  rubbing  her  down,'  as  you 
express  it,  rather  severely.  She  is  of  the  impulsive- 
tempered,  and  is  born  to  suffer,  also  to  recuperate,  I  hope; 
but  the  dearest,  truest,  sweetest,  most  guileless  nature. 
You  can  hope  for  anything,  everything,  with  such  a  char- 
acter," said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

"  I  long  to  get  her  to  my  quiet  house  in  the  country," 
said  the  president ;  "  I  want  to  see  her  eyes  look  as  they 
did  when  I  first  saw  them.  I  want  her  cheek  to  come  up, 
and  be  round  again." 

"  Rose  has  begun  to  live,"  said  Mrs.  Trevylyan. 

Each  of  these  two  good  people  had  his  and  her  own 
secret,  each  of  them  talked  with  half  a  confidence,  and 
they  separated  without  any  especial  understanding,  except 
that  Rose  should  be  bridemaid. 

It  was  a  beautiful  wedding,  that  of  Fanny  Grey  and 
Jack  Long.  All  the  world  was  there  excepting  the  Hon- 
orable Hathorne  Mack :  he  had  gone  to  Washington. 

The  bride  had  decreed  that  her  attendants  should  come 
in  pink — a  fact  which  was  attributed  to  her  well-known 
liking  for  Rose,  to  whom  that  color  was  becoming.  Jack 
Long  gave  all  the  bridernaids  diamond  lockets  with  his  own 
and  Fanny's  monograms  interlaced,  and  Fanny's  presents 
filled  two  rooms,  and  required  a  man  from  Tiffany's  to 


194  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

arrange  them.  She  had  ten  lace  fans,  all  alike,  seventeen 
pepper-casters,  and  nineteen  card-receivers;  ten  sets  of 
oyster-knives,  and  twenty-two  teapots.  Fortunately,  wed- 
ding presents  are  now  allowed  to  be  exchanged  ;  else  what 
use  for  them  ?  Also,  lamps  by  the  dozen,  and  a  number 
of  salts.  Then  came  silver  dinner-sets,  diamond  bracelets, 
sets  of  choice  porcelain,  pictures,  vases,  mirrors,  cam  el' s- 
hair  shawls,  necklaces,  ear-rings,  and  inkstands.  The  pop- 
ular and  beloved  belle  had  her  share  of  the  good  things 
of  this  earth. 

And  as  the  charming  troop  of  bridemaids  entered  the 
church,  who  so  lovely  as  Rose?  She  and  Harriet  Am- 
berley  came  first,  and  many  an  eye  rested  on  her  graceful 
figure  and  lovely  face.  Of  whom  did  she  think  as  she 
knelt  at  the  altar  railing  ?  Of  whom,  as  she  heard  those 
solemn  sounds  ?  Ah !  wedding  bells,  wedding  bells,  how 
loud  you  ring !  how  far  away  your  music  sounds  !  What 
is  there  in  the  dying  cadence  as  the  echo  dies  away  that  is 
sad — sad?  Why  do  we  always  weep  at  a  wedding?  And 
now  to  those  who  were  gayest  of  the  gay  as  they  sur- 
rounded that  fair  bride,  why  did  there  come  a  presage  of 
calamity  ? 


XXVI. 

MEANTIME  a  dead  man  lay  with  his  unseeing  eyes  open 
to  the  sky. 

While  his  name  was  on  the  lips  of  hundreds,  while  one 
anxious  heart  was  beating  aloud  for  news  of  him,  Pascal 
Chadwick  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  high  bluff,  dead. 

He  had  not  been  to  the  Sandwich  Islands  at  all.     He 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  195 

had  gone  out  to  quell  an  insurrection  in  one  of  his 
mining  camps,  wandering  on,  as  was  his  wont,  to  see  to 
one  or  the  other  of  his  many  interests,  telling  no  one  of 
his  plans.  The  nomadic  instinct  includes  secretiveness. 
A  Western  pioneer,  like  an  Indian,  tells  no  one  where  he 
is  going,  for  the  best  of  reasons — he  does  not  know  him- 
self. 

The  ocean  dashed  up  not  far  distant,  and  the  dreary 
cliffs  looked  out  upon  a  desolate  coast,  as  the  dead  man 
kept  his  solitary  watch.  The  snow  had  come,  and  had 
covered  up  the  dishonor  of  decay.  The  remote  stars,  keen, 
brilliant,  and  unsympathetic,  had  mirrored  themselves  in 
those  glassy  open  eyes.  The  sun  had  risen,  but  not  to 
warm  him.  There  he  lay.  Was  it  murder? 

And  now  came  a  group  of  miners  with  swinging  step 
around  the  corner  of  the  bluff.  It  was  a  high  scarp  of 
rock,  that  seemed  to  end  the  mountain  range ;  and  as  the 
man  who  first  turned  its  sharp  edge  advanced,  he  sang  in 
a  hoarse  voice  the  refrain  of  a  melancholy  little  Spanish 
song.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  bright-colored  scrape,  and 
was  followed  by  a  rough  group  of  fellow-miners. 

"  Hola  !"  said  one  ;  "Jose  has  stumbled." 

"  Yes,  and  over  a  dead  man !"  said  the  others. 

"  Bad  luck  to  our  new  lead,  that,"  said  another.  "  Bad 
luck !  bad  luck  !" 

A  dead  man  was  not  such  an  unusual  thing  for  these 
Mexican  miners  to  find  in  their  pathway,  but  the  event  had 
generally  a  fresh  personal  interest.  A  man  whom  they  had 
not  stabbed  or  killed  was  something  remote  or  unpleasant 
to  them.  They  did  not  like  it — that  way. 

"  He  has  been  dead  a  long  time,"  said  Jose,  rising  from 
his  knees  with  an  expression  of  relief. 


196  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Feel  in  his  pockets,"  said  another. 

There  were  found  a  watch,  a  silver  cigar-box,  a  miniature 
case,  a  little  money,  and  some  blotted  papers.  It  was  grow- 
ing dark,  and  Jose  was  hungry.  He  was  a  good-hearted 
ruffian,  but  he  was  feeling  more  impatient  for  his  supper 
just  now  than  anything  else.  He  was  the  leader  of  his 
troop,  and  desired  a  reputation  for  generosity ;  so,  to  save 
time  and  to  gain  favor,  he  said :  "  Here,  Pedro,  here, 
Manuel,  here,  Sancho,  Miguel,  take  these  coins.  I  will 
keep  the  watch  and  the  miniature  case.  This  was  an  im- 
portant man ;  he  will  be  inquired  for."  (Jose  had  yet 
an  eye  to  business.)  And  the  Mexican  disposed  of  the 
contents  of  the  dead  man's  pockets  with  true  Spanish 
splendor. 

"  But,  capitan,"  said  Pedro,  who  was  of  a  superstitious 
turn  of  mind,  "  we  shall  not  have  good  luck  if  we  do  not 
bury  him  and  put  a  cross  over  his  grave."  And  Pedro 
clutched  at  the  rosary  which  lay  in  his  belt  next  to  his 
Spanish  knife,  sharp  on  both  edges. 

"  No,  not  now ;  wait  until  after  supper,"  said  the  cap- 
itan. 

A  fire  was  built,  and  the  salt  pork  fried,  even  within  a 
few  rods  of  the  body  lying  stiff  and  stark.  They  had 
turned  their  backs  upon  it,  but  Pedro  looked  nervously 
over  his  left  shoulder.  As  the  steam  arose  from  the  boil- 
ing pot  of  chocolate,  Pedro  watched  its  shape  curiously  and 
fearfully  to  see  if  it  took  on  the  form  of  a  man  or  beast, 
and,  as  it  separated  into  two  distinct  columns,  he  said  the 
credo  and  trembled. 

"  This  was  murder,"  said  he. 

Suddenly  there  came  from  the  chaparral  behind  them 
the  wild  cry  of  the  coyote,  always  a  fearful  sound. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  197 

"  Cararaba  !"  said  the  superstitious  Pedro. 

All  these  men,  fearless  as  wild  wolves  before  a  real  dan- 
ger, ready  to  plunge  their  sharp  knives  into  a  living  foe — 
or  friend,  if  that  might  be  necessary — were  afraid  of  that 
poor  piece  of  unburied  clay.  Death  asserted  its  terrors. 

Pascal  Chadwick  had  ever  been  an  "  ugly  customer"  to 
meet  in  the  dark ;  he  was  even  more  terrible  now  as  he  lay 
there  unconscious,  a  mere  silent,  disorganized  mass  of  mat- 
ter, soon  to  be  absorbed  again  into  great  nature's  labora- 
tory. These  coarse  miners,  these  courageous  brutes,  were 
superstitious.  They  were  afraid  of  those  disembodied 
spirits  who,  according  to  their  inherited  belief,  followed 
and  watched  over  the  dead.  Particularly  were  they  afraid 
of  that  malevolent  spirit  who  came  up  to  care  for  those 
who  had  met  with  a  violent  death.  They  were  on  the  eve 
of  a  new  enterprise,  and  this  incident  foreboded  failure. 

"  But,"  said  Manuel,  "  we  can  give  him  good  Christian 
burial,  and  carve  a  cross  on  the  rock,  and  I  have  an  extra 
rosary,  which  I  will  hang  up  over  the  grave." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  capitan,  gravely.  "  After  supper 
you  shall  cut  two  metal  buttons  from  his  clothes,  and  look 
at  the  back  of  his  neck  to  see  if  the  spine  was  severed.  So 
strong  and  big  a  man  as  that,  if  murdered,  was  struck  from 
behind.  Then  we  will  say  some  prayers  over  him ;  that 
will  avert  the  bad  luck." 

As  the  moon  rose  over  the  dashing  waves  of  the  sea,  and 
whitened  the  great  mountain-side,  the  torches  of  the  miners 
were  seen  to  cast  a  red  light  on  a  new-made  grave. 

The  body  had  been  carefully  examined  by  the  men,  had 
been  wrapped  in  a  scrape  for  a  shroud,  and  Pedro,  with 
his  sharp  knife,  severed  a  lock  of  hair  from  the  scalp. 
The  two  metal  buttons  were  detached  from  the  rags  of  an 


198  A    TRANSPLANTED,  ROSE. 

outer  garment,  and  Manuel,  who  was  a  bit  of  a  penman, 
scratched  the  date  and  a  sort  of  description  on  a  greasy 
parchment  which  he  carried  with  him. 

"  This  man  will  be  inquired  for,"  said  he. 

Jose,  meantime,  half  sung,  half  chanted,  his  melancholy, 
sad  refrain,  and  Pedro  knelt  and  repeated  aves  and  credos. 
Ignorant,  superstitious,  and  brutal,  the  half-savage  faces 
for  a  moment  were  lifted  to  heaven  with  that  true  spirit  of 
humiliation  and  of  prayer  which  comes  to  all  men  in  the 
presence  of  Death.  Who  shall  say  that  there  is  no  God  ? 
Who  shall  say  that  an  appeal  to  Him  is  not  the  first  in- 
stinct in  joy,  in  sorrow,  and  in  fear?  As  surely  as  does 
the  child  appeal  to  its  mother,  does  the  heart  of  man  turn 
towards  the  unseen  Father  of  all.  Pascal  Chadwick  bad 
Christian  burial,  although  no  church,  no  cathedral,  opened 
its  doors  to  him.  The  low  foreign  speech,  the  half-articu- 
late chant,  the  burning  torches,  the  solemn  thud  of  the 
spade — all,  all  reiterated  "  bell,  book,  and  candle ;"  and, 
call  it  superstition  or  call  it  piety,  there  were  fervent 
prayers  said  over  that  poor  bit  of  clay.  And  they  piled  a 
cairn  of  stones  to  protect  that  unknown  grave  from  the 
coyote.  Manuel  hung  his  rosary  on  the  rock,  and  carved 
a  rude  cross  on  its  imperishable  wall  —  a  mural  tablet 
which  should  outlast  the  centuries.  Then  the  miners  took 
up  their  line  of  march.  Two  hours  more  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  they  tramped  before  they  reached  the  camp  to 
which  Capitan  Jose  was  leading  them,  which  was  over  the 
high  mountain,  away  from  the  sea,  and  down  into  the  val- 
ley again,  where,  after  crossing  a  dry  gully,  they  expected 
to  find  gold.  The  camp-fire  they  had  left  behind  them 
flickered  awhile,  as  if  it  were  the  flame  on  an  altar ;  then, 
blown  into  a  sudden  flash  by  a  passing  zephyr,  it  rose  in 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  199 

successive  flames.  A  ship  out  at  sea  sighted  it,  and  won- 
dered at  this  light-house  on  an  unknown  shore;  and  the 
stars  and  the  moon  saw  it,  but  gave  no  answering  sign. 
The  ocean  sang  on  that  ever-unceasing  requiem,  as  the 
flame  flickered  and  went  out,  "  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to 
dust."  Such  was  the  burial  service  of  one  whose  faults 
and  whose  virtues  and  whose  record  had  now  passed  away 
from  the  judgment  of  men  up  to  that  judgment  which, 
let  us  hope,  is  more  just  and  more  merciful  than  that  of 
earth. 

"  Sister,"  said  Arthur  Amberley  to  Harriet,  as  they  sat 
by  their  pleasant  wood  fire  one  cool  evening  in  the  spring, 
"  what  did  I  hear  you  say  about  going  to  Europe  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Mercer  wants  me  to  go  over  to  her  for  the 
London  season ;  but  I  have  concluded  that  I  will  not  go. 
I  cannot  leave  you,  you  know." 

"  Well,  Hatty,  you  had  better  go.  I  feel  very  much  like 
trying  a  Western  trip.  I  want  to  go  out  and  shoot  a  little." 

"  But  is  this  the  season  ?"  said  Harriet.  Arthur  hemmed 
and  hawed  and  hesitated. 

"  No,  dear,  it  is  not.  I  will  not  try  to  deceive  you.  I 
am  about  to  do  a  foolish  thing — I  am  going  to  try  to  find 
Pascal  Chadwick." 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  then  this  is  a  serious  affair  of  yours.  You 
love  Rose." 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  Harriet — perhaps  I  do ;  but  she  does  not 
love  me,  so  don't  be  apprehensive  of  a  wedding.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  tell  you  that  I  want  to  serve  her,  and  yet  not 
be  known  as  serving  her.  Perhaps,  too,  I  want  to  serve 
the  cause  of  truth  and  justice  and  law  and  order.  Jack 
Townley,  who  has  known  these  people  about  Pascal  Chad- 


200  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

wick  so  well,  had  a  visit  from  a  herdsman  named  Herzog, 
who  had  some  strange  news  for  him.  This  man  had  fol- 
lowed Mr.  Chad  wick  for  some  hundred  miles,  and  then  lost 
sight  of  him  near  a  mining  camp,  since  when  nothing  has 
been  heard  of  him.  The  man  has  been  here,  and  had  seen 
Hathorne  Mack,  who  had  turned  him  off  contemptuously. 
He  then  called  on  Jack,  and  told  him  of  his  fears  and  sus- 
picions. We  both  fear  some  foul  play.  If  you  go  to 
Europe,  I  have  determined  to  find  out  something  about 
this  matter.  I  shall  go  out  to  the  mining  grounds,  and 
look  around  ;  I  have  some  money  out  there  which  I  ought 
to  be  looking  after,  too." 

Harriet  came  over  and  put  her  two  arms  around  her 
brother's  neck.  "  Do  you  know  you  are  a  good  old  fel- 
low, Arthur  ?  You  come  nearer  some  of  those  ideal  men, 
Tristram  and  Lancelot  and  Arthur — great  King  Arthur, 
your  godfather — than  any  man  I  know.  But  will  you  not 
run  some  terrible  risks  out  in  that  savage  wilderness  ?" 

"No,  Harriet,  I  am  not  such  a  hero  as  you  think ;  I  am 
already  regretting  my  linen  sheets,  my  morning  tub,  my 
good  breakfasts ;  I  am  already  loathing  the  fried  pork  and 
the  horrible  bread  of  the  wandering  mountaineers.  Nurse 
me  through  all  the  dyspepsias  I  shall  acquire  in  the  desert, 
my  dear,  and  you  will  become  Auslaga,  Elaine,  Elizabeth 
of  Hungary,  and  all  the  noble  women  who  waited  on  your 
mythical  heroes." 

"  You  are  always  half  suspicious  of  your  own  nobility, 
Arthur.  How  I  wish  that  men  who  pretend  to  virtue  had 
half  your  reality  !  What  can  I  do  for  Rose  ?" 

"  She  must  soon  know  of  this  dreadful  probability,"  said 
Arthur.  "  I  fear  from  her  pale  face  that  it  has  been  whis- 
pered to  her.  Decker,  a  detective  whom  I  have  some 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  201 

knowledge  of,  tells  me  that  she  has  been  the  victim  of 
some  plot  of  a  villain,  from  which  he  has  tried  to  extricate 
her,  and  in  his  mousing  way  he  has  found  out  that  Pascal 
Chadwick  has  probably  been  murdered.  There  are  some 
mysterious  complications,  and  Decker  says  that  he  detects 
a  woman's  malice  in  the  affair  of  the  masquerade  ball. 
You  know  two  strange  men  entered  her  box,  one  in  my 
domino,  or  one  like  it,  and  her  domino  was  stolen." 

"  I  saw  her  double,  then,"  said  Harriet. 

"  You  know  we  kept  the  dominos  very  close." 

"Yes,  but  Sidonie  Devine  saw  mine,"  said  Harriet. 
"  You  know  how  she  dislikes  Rose." 

Arthur  Amberley  paused  a  moment,  and  thought.  "  I 
hardly  accuse  Sidonie  of  this  particular  outrage,"  said  he. 
"  I  think  a  more  vulgar  hand  has  been  at  work.  I  wonder 
if  Mrs.  Philippeau  could  have  connived  at  such  a  monstrous 
piece  of  cruelty  ?" 

"  You  know  she  is  Hathorne  Mack's  sister,"  said  Harriet. 

"  Yes.  I  wish  I  could  reach  that  man's  throat !"  said 
Arthur;  "and  yet  he  keeps  out  of  harm's  way,  and  is 
making  himself  so  necessary  to  all  the  Wall  Street  men." 

"  How  detestable  that  such  a  man  can  be  endured !" 

"  Yes,  and  permitted  to  ruin  a  young  life.  Harriet,  help 
me  to  help  Rose,  and  our  brother-and-sister  love  will  have 
a  new  and  sacred  significance." 

"  We  are  one  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  Arthur,"  said  Har- 
riet, calmly. 

"  I  may  trust  you  fully  to  keep  my  secret  ?"  said  Arthur. 

"Yes.  I  have  kept  several  for  you,"  said  Harriet, 
laughing. 

"Do  not  let  any  one  suppose  I  am  Quixotic  and 
generous.  Do  not  allow  any  one  to  suppose  that  I  am 


202  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

going  out  to  find  Pascal  Chad  wick.  I  have  no  other  ad- 
vice to  give  you,"  said  Arthur. 

"  I  shall  go  to  see  Rose  at  once." 

"  Do,  and  find  out,  as  only  a  woman  like  you  can,  how 
much  she  knows,  how  much  she  fears,  how  much  she 
suffers.  Let  her  know,  Harriet,  that  she  has  friends.  You 
can  say  that  whenever  she  will  see  me  I  am  at  her  com- 
mand. Oh,  Harriet,  what  cannot  a  good  woman  say  and 
do,  when  she  is  free  from  the  egotism,  the  selfishness,  the 
corruption  of  this  world  ?" 

"  Shall  I  prepare  her  for  the  worst  ?"  asked  Harriet,  ig- 
noring the  compliment. 

"I  think  she  ought  to  know  that  we  all  fear  that  her 
father  has  been  killed.  And,  Harriet,  something  tells  me 
that,  after  what  I  fear  she  has  been  told  to  suspect,  the 
news  of  his  death  will  not  be  the  worst  news." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  From  what  Decker  told  me,  I  suspect  that  she  has  been 
told  that  her  father  is  in  disgrace,  and  hiding  away  from 
justice." 

"  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  world  we  live  in !"  said  Harriet, 
shuddering,  as  she  looked  around  her  comfortable  parlor. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  it  is  not  all  shut  in  behind  these  crimson 
curtains,  this  world ;  but  perhaps  we  can  get  out  and  help 
save  here  and  there  a  waif." 


A   TRANSPLANTED    KOBE.  203 


XXVII. 

HATHORNE  MACK  had  heretofore  had  his  own  way  in 
things,  as  we  have  seen.  He  had  now  been  thwarted  in 
the  dearest  wish  of  his  life — "thwarted  by  a  beggarly  par- 
son." He  knew  that  he  had  attempted  a  great  crime,  and 
that  he  was  henceforth  to  be  "  shadowed,"  watched,  and, 
as  he  expressed  it,  "bothered." 

But,  whatever  were  his  faults,  cowardice  was  not  one  of 
them,  when  he  came  to  other  matters  than  love.  He  had 
helped  to  make  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  he  accordingly 
felt  little  or  no  respect  for  them.  He  knew  that  he  should 
be  "  let  alone  "  if  he  only  left  Rose  her  freedom,  and  her 
uncle  his  own  way.  He  was  not  afraid  of  punishment. 

"They  have  more  to  lose  than  I  have  by  exposure," 
reasoned  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack. 

Still  he  was  miserably,  dangerously  angry — angry  as  a 
bull-dog  is  angry,  snarling,  and  desirous  of  wreaking  his 
anger  on  somebody.  Alone,  he  paced  his  room  like  a  caged 
tiger,  not  knowing  quite  what  to  do  next.  Ill-mannered,  ill- 
conditioned,  and  di.^'usted,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack 
was  not  a  pleasant  object  to  look  upon. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  red-headed  fool  went  back  on  me  ?" 
said  he  to  himself.  "She's  fond  of  me,  and  could  not  help 
being  jealous.  But  I  do  not  think  she  would  dare.  I  know 
too  much  about  her,  and  the  plot  she  laid  for  Pascal.  Yet 
I  never  trusted  a  woman  before.  I  don't  believe  in  them." 

If  the  Honorable  Hathorne  wanted  an  object  on  which  to 
vent  his  wrath,  it  was  forthcoming.  A  low  tap  at  the  door. 


204  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he,  sulkily. 

Rebecca  Marjoribanks,  closely  veiled,  stood  before  him. 
"  The  game  is  up,"  said  she,  taking  a  chair,  and  quietly  un- 
tying her  bonnet-strings. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  he. 

"  There  has  been  a  detective  at  the  house,  disguised  as 
a  book  peddler,"  said  she.  "  He  thought  I  did  not  see  his 
false  beard  and  his  wig.  It  was  well  enough  done,  but  I 
have  seen  too  many  of  them.  What  has  happened  here  ?" 

It  was  a  skilful  piece  of  fencing  for  the  next  half-hour, 
but  the  woman's  wit  conquered.  Hathorne  Mack  had  to  tell 
her  everything.  She  grew  pale  as  he  went  on,  and  clinched 
her  hands. 

"  You  have  botched  this  business,  Rebecca,"  said  the 
man,  brutally. 

"And  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  she,  under  her  breath. 

"I  told  you  I  meant  to  marry  the  girl,"  said  Mack. 

"  But  you  said  you  would  not  use  force ;  you  promised 
that  you  would  respect  her  youth,  and  win  her  fairly,"  said 
the  governess. 

"  You  are  a  pretty  one  to  talk  about  fairness !"  said  the 
man. 

"  Don't  taunt  me,"  said  she,  calmly.  "  I  told  you  that, 
base,  criminal,  and  low  as  my  life  has  been,  pursued  by 
want,  followed  and  deceived,  the  victim  of  treachery,  as  I 
have  been,  I  have  one  soft  spot  in  my  heart — my  love  for 
that  girl.  Do  I  not  know  how  pure  and  good  she  is? 
Have  I  not  heard  her  prayers  and  her  innocent  confessions  ? 
Have  I  not  seen  the  purity  I  early  lost  blossom  in  her  clean 
soul?  Have  I  not  deliberately  stolen  her  lover's  letters 
and  her  heart's  best  hope  away  from  her,  to  make  her  will- 
ing to  be  your  wife,  suffering  as  I  did  it  all  the  pangs  of 


A    TRAXSPJ.AXTE1)     ROSS.  205 

my  own  early  disappointment,  all  to  serve  you,  and  have  I 
not  seen  her  constant  and  patient  to  the  end  ?  Hathorne, 
I  have  been  true  to  you,  true  to  my  promise ;  but  I  made 
a  condition,  which  you  have  violated." 

"  Where  are  the  letters  ?"  asked  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack,  interested. 

Miss  Marjoribanks  drew  from  her  pocket  a  bundle  of  un- 
opened English-postmarked  letters,  and  handed  them  to 
Mack.  Strange  to  say,  as  he  took  them,  and  essayed  to 
break  a  seal,  something  stopped  him.  What  is  there  in  that 
mysterious  look  of  a  seal  which  protects  our  written  secrets ! 
How  few,  even  the  basest  men,  like  to  open  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  another! 

"  Well,  you  are  sure  you  have  not  let  her  receive  one  of 
the  fool's  letters  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No.     She  thinks  he  has  not  written." 

44 1  don't  want  to  read  his  flummery,  then,"  said  Mack, 
as  he  threw  the  letters  into  a  drawer.  "  Now,  Rebecca," 
said  he,  as  she  fixed  him  with  her  steady  yellow-brown  eyes, 
"  I  suppose  you  want  money.  You  want  to  be  paid  :  un- 
successful agents  always  do.  Now,  how  much  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Hathorne.  You  must  marry  me.  I  have  left 
Rose,  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  respectability — everything.  The  de- 
tective is  on  my  track.  I  have  to  fly  again,  and  now  you 
must  protect  me.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  I  failed;  it 
was  the  girl's  irrepressible  aversion.  She  hates  you.  I 
love  you.  Marry  me." 

"  Marry  you  !"  said  the  brute. 

"  Yes,  marry  me.  I  have  served  you  faithfully.  The 
scheme  has  failed.  If  you  anger  me,  I  have  a  dreadful 
revenge  to  take.  I  know  the  whole  secret  of  Pascal  Chad- 
vrick's  journey  to  the  Pacific  coast.  I  know  your  share  in 

14 


206  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

a  certain   midnight  encounter.      Your  kennel   hound  has 
played  you  false." 

*'  You  cannot  and  shall  not  escape  to  tell  it,"  said  Ha- 
thorne  Mack,  reaching  out  his  burly  hand  towards  her  throat. 

But  the  woman  was  cool.  "I  am  not  afraid  of  you, 
Hathorne,"  said  she.  "  I  posted  a  letter  before  I  came 
here  which  told  where  I  was  coming.  It  was  to  a  distant 
city,  but  it  will  come  into  the  hands  of  the  police  in  three 
days:  you  had  better  not  murder  me." 

"  You  are  a  deep  one,"  said  he,  with  a  sullen  look  of 
admiration ;  "  you  always  were ;"  and  he  gave  her  some- 
thing almost  like  a  caress.  It  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
this  woman's  character  that  she  could  not  stand  tenderness. 
She  melted  at  once,  and  kissed  the  hand  which  had  been 
raised  to  strike  her. 

"  Oh,  Hathorne !  Hathorne !  marry  me,  and  love  me,  and 
no  slave  shall  serve  you  better.  I  am  the  only  creature  in 
the  world  who  loves  you — like  a  dog,  or  a  horse,  or  any 
other  unreasonable  creature.  Nothing  of  regret,  nothing  of 
penitence,  shall  ever  weaken  me  if  I  am  your  wife.  Discard 
me,  and  I  am  a  dangerous  foe — dangerous  alike  in  my 
cruelty  and  in  my  weakness."  And  the  poor  creature  knelt 
and  clasped  his  knees,  weeping  bitter  tears. 

It  was  true,  she  did  love  this  coarse,  strong,  hard  villain. 
He  was  very  unlike  the  other  men  on  whom  she  had  prac- 
tised her  arts.  He  was  illiterate,  ungraceful,  and  unrefined, 
and  yet  the  accomplished,  refined,  wicked  English  governess 
loved  him.  It  was  a  sincere  feeling;  therefore  it  was  re- 
spectable, in  its  way. 

Hathorne  Mack  looked  in  the  fire  silently.  Here  was 
a  coil  about  his  feet  for  which  he  was  not  prepared.  He 
looked  down  at  the  woman  who  still  sobbed  and  knelt  be- 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  207 

fore  him.  She  was  haggard ;  there  were  black  lines  about 
her  eyes ;  her  magnificent  red  hair  was  loosened  and  fell 
about  her  figure — that  figure  which  he  had  condescended 
to  admire,  and  it  was  supple  and  gracious.  He  thought  of 
Rose,  and  a  shudder  stole  over  even  his  broad  frame,  and 
shook  him. 

"  She  hates  me,  that  girl,"  said  he ;  "  she  might  stab  me 
in  the  night — but  so,  for  that  matter,  might  you." 

"  You  used  to  love  me,  Hathorne,"  said  the  governess. 
"  I  have  always  loved  you,  and  I  always  shall.  I  have  been 
true  to  my  promise,  even  trying  to  win  you  another  woman 
— my  own  pet  lamb,  my  child  almost.  I  have  borne  the 
most  terrible  ill-usage  from  you,  and  I  love  you  still.  Is 
not  that  worth  something  ?" 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  rolling  a  stone  up  hill,  but  she 
was  doing  it  well. 

An  unexpected  ally  came  to  help  her :  it  was  the  church 
clock  striking  three.  She  started  to  her  feet.  "  We  have 
no  time  to  lose,"  said  she.  "Rose  has  walked  to  the 
Park,  and  I  suspect  to  meet  the  detective.  We  must  be 
away  from  here  when  they  return." 

The  woman's  nature,  thoroughly  evil  from  the  training 
it  had  received,  yet  not  foully  false  at  the  core,  dreaded  of 
all  things  to  meet  Rose  again  ;  whatever  should  happen,  she 
meant  to  be  far  enough  away  from  her. 

"  They  cannot  do  anything  to  us,"  said  Mack,  after  a 
moment's  thought. 

"  They  can  arrest  me,"  said  she.  She  was  too  skilled  in 
the  arts  of  escape  to  risk  anything.  She  was  too  coura- 
geous to  be  cowed  by  outward  circumstances.  "  Marry  me, 
and  then  I  cannot  testify  against  you,"  said  she,  using  her 
last  argument. 


208  A    TRANSPLANTED   ROSE. 

The  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  looked  at  her  with  an 
expression  in  which  anger,  disgust,  and  admiration  were 
strangely  blended.  He  proceeded  to  his  desk,  took  out 
money  and  papers,  and  threw  into  its  deeps  poor  Sir  Lytton 
Leycester's  package  of  letters,  locked  it,  and  moved  towards 
the  door.  "Have  you  a  carriage  at  the  door?"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  and  my  portmanteau,"  said  she. 

"  Pack  mine  for  three  days,"  said  he.  She  did  so,  with 
a  neat  order  and  celerity  which  he  even  paused  to  admire. 
"  Where  is  your  parson  ?"  said  he. 

"  Out  of  the  city  five  miles.  You  know  Morton  Cottage, 
where  we  once  passed  a  few  weeks  ?" 

"  You  have  arranged  it  all,  have  you  ?" 

"  No,  Hathorne ;  it  arranges  itself ;  but  I  have  baffled 
pursuit  and  inquiry  for  a  few  days,  for  I  have  left  my 
papers  in  apparent  confusion,  and  when  the  police  examine 
them  to-morrow  they  will  believe  I  have  gone  to  Europe. 
We  shall  gain  time." 

Wrapping  his  warm  fur-lined  coat  about  him,  and  lock- 
ing his  door,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  stole  down 
the  stairs  silently  after  his  captor.  When  they  entered  the 
carriage  they  scarcely  spoke.  She  knew  too  much  to  engage 
him  in  conversation  at  once ;  he  was  not  in  the  mood  for  it. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  reached  Morton  Cottage,  in 
one  of  the  loneliest  suburbs  of  New  York.  A  light  burned 
in  the  little  parlor  of  the  clergyman's  modest  mansion,  and 
he  started  up  himself  to  answer  the  bell. 

It  was  a  strange  marriage,  and  the  only  witness  was  a 
half-blind  negro  whom  the  clergyman  called  in  from  the 
kitchen.  And  yet  it  was  as  solemn  and  as  binding  as  any 
that  is  celebrated  in  church  or  in  grand  salon  before  admir- 
ing friends.  The  words  were  there,  the  great  vow  was  taken 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBE.  209 

•which  it  is  a  mortal  sin  to  break.  A  sullen,  angry  man,  a 
dishevelled  and  trembling  woman,  two  people  bound  by 
hate  as  well  as  love,  took  on  their  soiled  lips  those  conse- 
crated words,  and  promised  to  love,  obey,  protect,  and 
cherish  so  long  as  they  both  should  live.  And  the  clergy- 
man, accustomed,  by  the  way,  to  "join  together  strange 
beasts,"  looked  at  them  askance  as  he  said,  "  Whom  God 
hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

They  drove  away  in  the  darkness,  nobody  cared  where. 

"  Lady's  left  her  handkercher,  sir,"  said  the  black  man, 
picking  up  something  white  on  the  rectory  floor. 

"  Let  me  have  it,"  said  the  clergyman ;  and  he  locked  it 
up  in  his  desk.  "  That  pair  will  be  inquired  for,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,"  said  he,  as  he  wrote  down  the  date  of  the 
marriage,  and  the  feigned  names  which  this  precious  pair 
had  given  him. 

It  was  late  the  next  day  before  Mr.  Decker  wandered 
down  to  look  at  the  rooms  of  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack.  A  half-sleepy,  half-drunken  fellow  slouched  past 
the  prim  Mr.  Decker.  Even  then  and  there  Mr.  Decker 
shunned  the  appearance  of  evil,  and  seemed  to  be  repri- 
manding the  man. 

"  Left  yesterday  at  half-past  four  with  red-haired  wom- 
an," said  the  tramp,  slouching  onward. 

Then  Mr.  Decker  forgot  his  primness,  and  started  on  a 
run.  Rebecca  Marjoribanks  had  baffled  him.  It  was  not 
the  first  time,  by  the  way.  He  was  absolutely  breathless  as 
he  reached  Mrs.  Trevylyan's  door.  The  stately  servant  who 
answered  the  summons  had  never  seen  a  more  anxious  face 
than  that  of  Mr.  Decker. 

"  Is  Miss — what  do  you  call  'em — governess — at  home  ?" 
said  he. 


210  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"  No,  sir ;  she  left  town  for  a  few  days  yesterday  after- 
noon to  visit  a  relative  in  Princeton,  sir.  She  have  a  very 
bad  sore  throat,  sir,  and  was  afeard  of  giving  of  it  to  the 
family,  sir;  so  she  took  quite  a  sudding  determination  to 
leave,  with  a  carpet-bag,  for  a  few  days,  sir,"  said  the  man, 
glibly  repeating  the  parting  injunctions  of  the  departed 
governess. 

"  Foiled,  by  Jove !"  said  Mr.  Decker. 


XXVIII. 

WHILE  this  little  drama  was  being  enacted  on  the  one 
side  of  the  house,  Rose  and  Pierre,  with  the  German  nurse, 
had  walked  off  to  the  Park.  It  was  their  greatest  pleasure 
to  have  a  long  stroll  together,  and  to  visit  the  little  lions 
was  to  Pierre  rapture  indescribable. 

Many  of  her  fashionable  friends  saw  Rose  as  she  walked 
and  chatted  with  Pierre,  and  thought  her  a  very  deep,  deep 
girl. 

"  How  she  does  affect  the  quite  too  innocently  natural, 
does  she  not?"  said  Sidonie  Devine.  "She  is  quite  too 
too,  isn't  she  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morella ;  "  all  that  is  gotten  up  for 
Jack,  you  know.  She  is  sure  to  meet  him  out  at  the 
Park.  All  the  young  men  are  going  out  just  now  for 
their  afternoon  ride,  and  she  knows  walking  gives  her  a 
color." 

Rose  walked  on  unconscious  of  criticism,  full  of  deep 
and  troubled  thoughts,  and  only  half  answering  Pierre's 
questions. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  211 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Rose  ?"  said  Pierre.  "  You 
are  not  so  pleasant  as  you  are  sometimes." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  myself,  Pierre,"  said  she,  apologeti- 
cally, "and  people  are  never  pleasant  when  they  are  think- 
ing of  themselves." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  think  of  yourself.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  a  story,"  said  Pierre. 

"  Well,  once  there  was  a  man,"  said  Rose.  And  then 
she  began  to  think  with  terror  of  the  Honorable  Hathorne 
Mack. 

"Well,  what  did  he  do?"  said  Pierre. 

"  Well,  he  said  he  would  meet  us  up  by  the  animals," 
said  Rose,  her  mind  travelling  off  to  the  detective.  And 
then  she  corrected  herself,  and  said,  "  I  cannot  tell  you 
a  good  story  to-day  out  of  my  head,  but  I  will  repeat  to 
you  the  '  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.'  " 

So,  as  they  were  in  the  midst  of  that  delightful  story  of 
the  rats,  they  reached  the  home  of  the  larger  quadrupeds, 
and  forgot  their  small  deer. 

Rose  was  in  the  midst  of  an  eloquent  description  of  the 
tiger,  his  habits  and  his  bloodthirsty  proclivities,  when  a 
man  came  sauntering  along  carelessly. 

"You  dropped  your  handkerchief,  miss,"  said  he,  re- 
spectfully, and  he  handed  her  a  fine  white  handkerchief. 

She  was  about  to  refuse  the  gift,  when  a  second  look 
told  her  that  Decker  stood  before  her. 

"  Look  at  the  initials  in  the  corner,  and  tell  me  whose 
they  are.  This  handkerchief  was  found  in  the  pocket  of 
the  domino." 

Rose  looked  and  read  "  R.  E.  M."  in  embroidered  capi- 
tals. Just  as  she  had  done  so  she  looked  up,  and  saw  Jack 
Townley  looking  at  her  from  another  part  of  the  room. 


212  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBE. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  with  ready  composure,  to  the 
detective,  who  looked  now  like  a  quiet  man  of  fashion. 
"  I  suppose  I  dropped  it  at  the  door." 

The  detective  melted  into  thin  air,  and  disappeared. 

Jack  Townley  had  seen  Rose  blush,  and  a  curious  sus- 
picion took  hold  of  him.  "  Is  she  nothing  but  a  universal 
coquette  ?"  said  he. 

But  Rose  took  the  hand  of  Pierre,  and  walked  on  to  the 
lions,  nodding  to  Mr.  Townley  as  she  did  so. 

"  I  saw  you  come  in,  and  I  took  the  liberty  of  following, 
although  my  horse  does  not  like  the  odor  of  these  gentle- 
men," said  the  young  beau,  as  he  tapped  his  riding-boot. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  meet  ajeunesse  doree  in  here,"  said 
Rose,  laughing.  "  Pierre  and  I  have  it  all  to  ourselves 
generally,"  said  she. 

"  I  feared  a  man  was  speaking  to  you  who  had  no  right 
to,"  said  Jack,  rather  foolishly,  "  so  I  came  over  to  offer 
my  protection." 

"Only  somebody  picked  up  my  handkerchief,"  said 
Rose. 

Now  Jack  Townley  looked  into  the  pure  face  of  Rose, 
and  knew  instinctively  that  she  was  not  telling  him  the 
whole  truth.  His  wide  experience  of  women  had  taught 
him  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  innocence — one  that  is 
absolutely  ignorant  of  evil,  and  therefore  always  suspected ; 
another,  with  the  clearest  possible  knowledge  of  its  exist- 
ence, and  yet  with  a  horror  and  contempt  of  it.  He  had 
admired  the  freshness  and  ingenuous  delicacy  of  this  girl's 
mind.  It  always  impressed  him,  but  to-day  he  began  to 
doubt  it  Was  she  a  dissembler,  as  good  an  actress  off  the 
stage  as  she  was  on  it  ?  He  knew  how  dangerous  to  a 
young  girl  in  New  York  was  the  innocent  ignorance  of  the 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  213 

first  sort,  and,  although  it  was  none  of  his  business,  Jack 
determined  to  say  a  word  or  two. 

"  That  man  should  have  handed  you  the  handkerchief 
without  speaking  to  you,"  said  he. 

Rose  turned  towards  him,  and  read  the  thought  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  am  destined  to  do  the  wrong  thing  and  to  be  mis- 
understood in  New  York,"  said  she.  "  If  any  of  our 
friends  saw  me  in  here  with  you,  they  would  say  I  had 
come  to  meet  you ;  so  let  us  walk  out." 

There  was  so  much  dignity  in  her  mood  as  she  took  the 
child's  hand  and  led  him  away  from  the  little  lions,  that 
Jack  Townley  bowed,  and  absolutely  blushed. 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you,  Miss  Rose — a  message  from 
Sir  Lytton  Leycester.  May  I  give  it  to  you  here  ?"  Rose 
allowed  Pierre  to  pull  her  back  to  the  dear  neighborhood 
of  the  little  lions.  "  He  asks  why  you  have  forgotten  him," 
said  Townley. 

Now  came  the  deep  torrent  of  blood  up  to  her  face. 
He  had  not  written  her  a  word  —  he  whose  whispered 
words  had  been  so  sweet,  he  whose  love  had  seemed  so 
true — and  he  had  sent  her  this  insulting  message ! 

"  Tell  him  that  I  have  had  every  reason  to  forget  him," 
said  she,  proudly  drawing  herself  up.  "  That  is  my  mes- 
sage to  Sir  Lytton." 

The  skies  looked  gray  and  cold  as  she  walked  home 
with  Pierre.  Her  laughter  was  forced  and  unnatural,  and, 
dropping  him  at  his  own  door,  she  walked  home  to  have 
an  hour  of  sad  meditation  before  dinner. 

She  was  to  go  to  a  large  dinner  that  evening,  and  Martha 
came  in  to  dress  her. 

"  Your  aunt  would  like  to  speak  to  you,  miss,"  said  she, 


214  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

as  Rose  stood  before  her,  all  radiant  in  a  white  grenadine 
with  violets. 

Rose  went  into  her  aunt's  bedroom,  and  was  shocked  to 
see  how  ill  Mrs.  Trevylyan  looked. 

"  Are  you  worse,  dear  aunt?"  said  Rose. 

"  I  fear  I  am,  dear — not  so  well ;  but  don't  be  anxious. 
How  perfectly  that  dress  fits  you  !  Rose,  did  you  know 
that  Miss  Marjoribanks  had  gone  for  a  few  days  to  Prince- 
ton ?  She  tells  ine  she  fears  that  she  has  the  diphtheria ; 
and  she  was  very  good  to  propose  going." 

Something  struck  Rose  as  with  an  arrow.  The  handker- 
chief! the  initials!  She  had  forgotten  the  incident  in  the 
hurry  and  the  agitation  which  followed.  Kissing  her  aunt 
good-night,  she  ran  up  to  her  own  room  again,  and  took 
out  the  handkerchief  from  the  pocket  of  her  ulster,  where 
she  had  thrust  it.  "  R.  E.  M."  There  was  no  doubt  of  it. 
She  well  remembered  seeing  Miss  Marjoribanks  carry  such 
fine  handkerchiefs  with  beautiful  French  embroidery. 

She  went  to  the  dinner,  as  many  a  belle  goes  to  a  dinner, 
hiding  a  trouble  in  her  heart.  Was  Marjoribanks  a  traitor  ? 
Was  she  mixed  up  in  this  dreadful  business  ?  It  was  hard 
to  believe  it,  for  she  had  always  so  protected  her  against 
Hathorne  Mack.  How  strange  it  seemed  to  her  at  the 
dinner !  Every  one  was  talking  of  Hathorne  Mack. 

"  Oh,  he  is  very  rich,  as  riches  go.  He  has  just  bought 
a  silver  mine,"  said  young  Shepherd. 

"  I  see  that  he  is  in  Washington  to-day,"  said  Browne. 
"  Buying  a  senator,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?"  said  another.  "  He 
has  been  on  'Change  all  day.  See  the  Evening  Rover. 
It  is  full  of  his  operations." 

"  A  clever  man,  and  an  honest  man,  that,"  said  Shepherd. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  215 

"  An  honest  man  !"  said  a  voice  down  the  table.  "  I 
take  issue  there.  I  have  my  doubts  about  that  transfer  of 
the  silver  mine." 

"  Don't  speak  them,  if  you  have,"  said  Shepherd.  "  He 
is  too  rich  to  be  criticised." 

"  He  is  very  charitable,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "  He  has 
given  me  a  thousand  dollars  for  my  '  Home  for  One-armed 
Plasterers.' " 

"  Oh,  that  is  very  noble !"  said  Sidonie  Devine. 

"Yes,  so  generous!"  said  Mrs.  Morella.  "  And  we  like 
his  dear  little  sister  so  very  much — pretty  little  Mrs.  Phil- 
ippeau.  Louisa  Rigton  was  rather  down  on  her  at  one 
time,  and  said  she  had  known  her  at  school,  where  she  was 
not  at  all  liked ;  but  now  Louisa  Rigton  is  hand  and  glove 
with  her,  and  insists  on  her  name  being  everywhere.  I 
think  she  is  to  give  her  influence  to  the  ball  for  the  One- 
armed  Plumbers,  by  the  way,  which  is  a  much  better 
charity,  you  know ;  for  plumbing  is  so  very  much  less 
healthy  than  plastering,  Mrs.  Mortimer." 

"  I  think,"  said  Jack  Townley,  "  that  you  are  getting  the 
brother  and  sister  pitted  against  each  other,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  It  was  so  good  of  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack  to 
educate  that  sister.  He  is  a  model  of  the  domestic  virtues 
— is  he  not,  Miss  Kose  ?"  asked  Mr.  Shepherd. 

As  this  talk  floated  around  her,  Rose  thought  of  the 
scenes  through  which  she  had  lately  passed.  She  thought 
of  the  selfish  wrotch  who  had  traded  on  her  fears  and  on 
her  love  for  her  father.  She  realized  how  wonderful  a 
thing  was  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  society,  and  how 
truly  the  fight  was  behind  masked  batteries.  And  she  sat 
and  laughed  and  ate  and  talked,  covering  up  the  grief  that 
consumed  her.  For  now  the  conversation  took  up  Sir 


216  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Lytton  Leicester,  and  with  its  usual  accuracy  society  dis- 
cussed him. 

"  I  hear  that  he  is  engaged  to  his  cousin,  a  great  heir- 
ess," said  Shepherd. 

"  Oh !"  "  Ah,  indeed !"  said  everybody. 

"  I  knew  that  long  ago,"  said  Sidonie  Devine.  "  He 
told  me  he  thought  he  ought  to  marry  her :  their  estates 
join." 

The  exceeding  bitterness  that  maketh  the  heart  sick  had 
now  fully  seized  upon  Rose,  and  she  was  glad  to  hear  her 
hostess  give  the  signal  for  rising.  Yet  she  had  made  no 
sign,  and  not  even  the  sensitive  cheek  spake  the  feelings 
which  came  crowding  to  her  heart.  Doubt  and  dread  are 
the  precursors  of  despair ;  we  can  bear  any  certainty  better 
than  an  uncertainty.  Rose  had  entered  the  dreadful  realm 
of  suspense. 

"When  she  went  home  she  slept  little.  All  the  story  of 
Marjoribanks  was  beginning  to  unfold  itself.  This  person, 
all  propriety  and  gentleness,  full  of  kindness,  this  teacher 
of  youth,  was,  then,  a  traitor,  a  fiend  in  disguise,  who  had 
been  using  the  most  dastardly  and  barbarous  of  all  dis- 
guises in  order  to — do  what  ?  That  as  yet  Rose  could  not 
understand.  There  was  no  tangible  motive,  no  possible 
solution,  to  her  mind. 

The  shadows  began  to  creep  over  the  young  girl's  mind, 
and  sleep  came  to  her  relief.  The  next  day  brought  Mr. 
Decker,  and  later  a  warrant  came  which  enabled  him  to 
search  the  papers  of  Miss  Marjoribanks.  As  we  know, 
she  had  thrown  him  off  the  track,  and  although  he  sus- 
pected that  she  had  had  other  and  ulterior  motives  of  gain 
and  of  plunder,  it  was  enough  to  make  him  forever  ashamed 
of  himself  that  he  had  not  caught  her  on  the  one  count 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  217 

of  the  surreptitious  change  of  dominos,  the  visit  to  the 
ball,  and  of  her  various  past  misdemeanors.  She  had 
disappeared,  and  the  world,  although  it  might  find  the 
Honorable  Hathorne  Mack,  would  have  some  trouble  in 
ever  finding  again  Ethel  Marjoribanks. 


XXIX. 

A  TEAR  had  passed,  June  had  come  at  Charpentier,  and 
the  students  were  enjoying  the  prospect  of  vacation.  The 
great  days  of  final  examination  were  approaching ;  the  lord- 
ly Seniors,  who  felt  sure  of  their  own  standing,  were  walk- 
ing along  in  groups  under  the  elms,  and  lifting  a  respectful 
hat  to  the  passing  beauties. 

Charlie  Alvord,  whom  all  expected  would  be  the  first 
man,  was  strolling  along  with  a  friend  from  New  York, 
Eastman  Jones,  who  had  come  up  to  pay  him  a  visit. 
Two  young  ladies  passed  them,  one  in  deep  mourning. 
Charlie  Alvord  raised  his  hat,  and  Eastman  Jones,  raising 
his,  gave  a  curious  glance  at  the  maiden  in  black. 

"  That  is  as  sweet  an  apparition  as  I  have  seen  in  Char- 
pentier," said  he — "the  one  in  the  little  cloak  and  black 
hat.  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  That  is  Miss  Rose  Cbadwick,"  said  Charlie  Alvord, 
"  the  president's  niece,  and  the  despair  of  undergraduates. 
Isn't  she  a  beauty  ?  She  came  here  last  summer.  It  seems 
she  has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Her  father  was  mur- 
dered out  West,  and  the  news  was  suddenly  broken  to  her 
aunt,  his  sister,  and  she  died.  This  young  lady  was  alone 
with  her  at  the  time,  and  suffered  a  great  shock.  Then 


218  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

she  has  been  disappointed  in  love,  I  believe.  Miss  Will- 
iams told  me  she  had  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  But 
they  are  very  kind  to  her,  and  she  is  a  perfect  angel,  we 
think." 

"  Oh,  I  remember !  My  sisters  knew  her  in  New  York 
society.  She  came  from  the  West  a  perfect  greenhorn, 
and  dressed  queerly.  I  know  my  sisters  said  that  she  was 
making  a  sensation,  and  that  she  had  such  a  number  of 
admirers.  Among  them,  a  Lord  Somebody  and  an  old  fat 
Californian,  the  Honorable  Hathorne  Mack." 

"  He  has  got  all  her  father's  money,  they  say,  and  I 
think  President  Williams  is  trying  to  get  some  of  it  away 
from  him  for  her." 

"  What  a  history !  and  what  a  sweet,  sad,  troubled  face ! 
Charlie,  would  it  be  in  bad  taste  for  us  to  walk  back  and 
see  it  again  ?"  said  Jones. 

"  Oh  no.  I  have  the  honor  to  know  both  ladies.  Per- 
haps we  will  join  them,  and  I  will  introduce  you,"  said 
Alvord. 

They  walked  up,  crossed  a  rustic  bridge,  met  the  beaux 
and  belles  of  Charpentier  walking  in  the  warm  twilight, 
retraced  their  steps,  and  met  Rose  and  her  cousin.  Charlie 
Alvord  joined  them,  was  well  received,  and  introduced  his 
friend. 

"  Miss  Williams,  may  I  present  my  friend  Mr.  Eastman 
Jones? — a  law  pill  from  Harvard,  a  man  sighing  for  his. 
first  cause — '  thou  great  first  cause,  least  understood,'  you 
know.  Miss  Chadwick,  good-evening.  Allow  me."  So, 
with  truest  generosity,  Charlie  took  Miss  Williams,  who 
was  only  a  quiet,  modest,  and  sufficiently  agreeable  girl, 
leaving  the  beauty  to  his  friend. 

Rose  was  strangely  changed  by  her  year  of  sorrow.     Her 


A  TRANSPLANTED  ROSE.  219 

face  had  been  one  of  expectancy,  of  hope.  "  Beauty  with 
a  future  "  had  been  written  on  it.  Now  it  was  beauty 
with  a  past.  There  was  a  depth,  a  lovely  tenderness  of 
expression,  a  drawn-down  corner  to  the  mouth,  which  did 
not  hurt  its  rosy  fulness.  The  tall,  slender  figure  had 
filled  out  a  little,  for  youth  and  health  must  improve  its 
conditions,  no  matter  what  the  mind  suffers.  She  was 
gentler  than  of  yore,  and  the  voice  and  pronunciation  had 
reached  even  what  Professor  Paton  called  perfection. 

"I  think  I  have  heard  my  sisters  speak  of  you,"  said 
Mr.  Jones.  "  They  used  to  meet  you  at  Mrs.  Mortimer's." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Rose,  a  little  color  rising  in  her  cheek, 
above  the  black  frills  of  her  collarette.  "  How  are  they 
now  ?  I  have  scarcely  heard  of  New  York  for  a  year." 

"  And  you  have  passed  it  in  this  village,  the  last  year  ?" 
asked  the  young  man. 

"  Yes,  in  this  blessed  village.  Is  it  not  a  lovely  spot  ?" 
said  Rose,  sadly. 

"  It  is  enchanting ;  this  broad  street,  these  trees,  and 
such  superb  forests  in  the  neighborhood,  and  these  rapid, 
tumultuous  streams  bursting  out  everywhere.  You  like  the 
country,  Miss  Chadwick  ?" 

Rose  turned  upon  him  a  pair  of  eyes  which  went  to  the 
heart  of  the  "law  pill,"  as  his  friend  irreverently  called 
him.  "  I  love  it ;  it  has  brought  me  peace,"  said  she. 

From  that  moment  Eastman  Jones  was  her  slave.  As 
he  looked  into  that  sad  face  he  felt  an  irresistible  longing 
to  serve  her.  He  had  found  his  "  great  first  cause."  He 
loved  her  at  first  sight;  he  loved  her  unconscious  sweet- 
ness, her  sacred  sorrow,  her  wounded  youth,  and  her 
womanhood.  He  did  not  say  all  this  to  himself,  he  only 
felt  a  certain  bewilderment,  out  of  which  soil  this  flower  of 


220  A  TRANSPLANTED    ROSB. 

devotion  was  to  grow ;  and  when  Miss  Williams  turned,  and 
invited  them  home  to  tea,  he  felt  that  he  walked  on  the  air. 

It  had  been  a  year  of  consolation,  of  quiet  study,  of  a 
learning  of  homely  duties,  of  contact  with  the  plain,  sim- 
ple, elevated  thought  of  a  quiet  student  household,  in  the 
best  strata  of  American  life,  to  Rose. 

After  her  aunt  died,  all  the  beautiful  house,  all  Mrs. 
Trevylyan's  money,  went  back  to  Mr.  Trevylyan's  family, 
and  Rose  was  left  without  a  home,  and  penniless.  Pascal 
Chadwick's  affairs  were  in  the  utmost  confusion.  Hathorne 
Mack  owned  everything.  He  had  appeared  in  Wall  Street, 
at  his  showy  lodgings  in  Fifth  Avenue,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened;  no  one  whispered  of  the  episode  of  Rebecca 
Maijoribanks.  If  any  one  knew  of  it,  it  was  Decker,  and 
he  was  not  apt  to  spread  reports  until  he  was  ready.  All 
that  Rose  knew  was  that  she  had  nothing,  and  he  had  all ; 
that  her  uncle  and  aunt  put  their  good  arms  about  her,  and 
took  her  to  their  quiet,  frugal  country  home. 

President  Williams  had  known  how  to  treat  the  wounded 
creature.  He  and  his  wife  left  her  to  nature  and  time,  and 
they  threw  in  "  those  iron-clad  joys  which  we  call  employ- 
ments." She  had  been  allowed  to  weep  her  fill,  then  to  go 
off  for  long  walks  in  that  pure  balsamic  air  under  the  pines, 
to  where  the  partridge- berries  gleamed  in  the  green  moss, 
and  where  the  pine  cones  lay  in  fragrant  heaps,  where  the 
ferns  sprang  in  graceful  profusion  ;  to  the  top  of  hills  from 
which  she  looked  upward  into  illimitable  blue,  or  down  on 
the  peaceful  industry  of  a  well-ordered,  quiet  community, 
where  the  farmers  led  a  life  of  comfortable  industry,  proud 
of  their  nearness  to  Charpentier  College,  ambitious  to  send 
their  sons  to  its  fountain  of  learning,  and  hoping  that  they 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  221 

might  there  learn  to  be — let  us  say  it  reverently — the  Lin- 
coins  and  the  Garfields  of  the  future. 

It  was  the  greatest  contrast,  this  life,  to  the  wandering, 
homeless,  and  nomadic  life  of  her  youth.  It  was  again  a 
contrast  to  her  New  York  life.  Never  in  all  her  troubled 
and  changeful  existence  had  the  girl  known  this  life  of 
"  plain  living  and  high  thinking."  She  watched  her  aunt's 
economies  in  housekeeping,  the  neat,  tasteful,  frugal,  well- 
ordered  table,  with  surprise.  The  village  ethics  of  polite- 
ness and  etiquette  amused  her  in  spite  of  herself.  She  saw 
the  questions  of  precedence,  of  calls,  and  invitations,  re- 
duced to  microscopic  smallness,  but  still  in  their  way  a 
parody  of  the  larger  city  life,  and.  fashion,  a  word  which 
she  hoped  that  she  had  heard  for  the  last  time,  was  as 
often  on  the  lips  of  those  ladies  who  came  in  to  her  aunt's 
tea  parties  as  it  had  been  in  New  York  on  the  lips  of  poor 
Mrs.  Philippeau. 

But  her  uncle,  as  soon  as  the  sudden  storms  of  weeping 
were  over,  as  soon  as  the  wild  grief  which  tore  her  young 
heart  could  be  assuaged,  put  her  at  her  books.  In  her 
black  gown,  in  which  she  looked  like  a  young  nun  under- 
going a  novitiate,  she  spent  many  a  quiet,  strong  hour  of 
the  severe  winter  studying  Greek,  Latin,  and  mathematics, 
giving  her  uncle  every  day  new  food  for  his  favorite  hobby, 
"  the  higher  education  of  women." 

"  Why,  she  beats  the  boys  all  to  pieces,"  said  he  to  his 
wife,  in  the  privacy  of  the  conjugal  bedroom ;  "  she  could 
take  the  first  honors." 

"  Oh,  now,  Mr.  Williams,  don't  make  her  work  too  hard, 
and  ruin  her  health  and  beauty,"  said  his  wife,  who  was 
not  an  advanced  person.  "  I  want  her  to  go  back  into  the 

world  and  marry  well." 

U 


222  A    TRANSPLANTED   ROSE. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  professor,  glancing  at  a  basket  of 
his  own  stockings,  which  were  most  beautifully  darned, 
"  every  woman  is  not  born  to  be  a  perfect  wife,  as  you 
were." 

"  Well,  they  should  be  trained  to  the  profession  of  being 
a  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Williams. 

"  That  is  true ;  but  if  we  leave  Rose,  who  is  a  person  of 
remarkable  gifts,  to  brood  over  her  troubles,  she  would  go 
mad,"  said  the  president. 

"  I  know,  dear;  I  know  you  are  very  wise ;  and  I  have 
wished  sometimes,  as  you  know,  that  /  could  have  cared 
for  study.  It  might  have  helped  me  more — " 

A  few  bright  tears  fell  on  the  president's  stockings,  and 
the  presidential  hand  wiped  them  away  from  the  dear  old 
familiar  eyes. 

"We  must  not  strike  those  solemn,  tender  chords, 
Elizabeth,"  said  he,  firmly,  thinking  of  his  dead  boy — the 
boy  of  promise,  the  student,  the  thinker,  the  young  man 
of  overwrought  brain,  the  victim  perhaps  of  a  too  great 
ambition.  "  I  shall  not  force  her,  dear,  to  study ;  and  do 
yon  make  her  like  yourself,  a  lovely  practical  woman.  I 
see  every  day  an  improvement  in  her.  She  is  so  coherent, 
and  to  the  purpose.  She  is  far  more  developed  than  I  had 
supposed.  I  believe  that  Rose  is  the  better  for  this  year 
of  hard  study.  Remember  what  she  has  suffered ;  and  re- 
member, too,  how  fragmentary  her  education  had  been. 
Then  if  I  can  save  nothing  from  the  wreck  of  Pascal's 
fortunes,  she  must  support  herself.  She  would  make  a  first- 
rate  teacher." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Williams  !  that  lovely  girl  a  teacher!  I  want 
her  to  be  an  elegant  woman  of  the  world,"  said  the  wife. 

The  president  sat  down,  and  laughed  at  his  wife.     "  My 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSS.  223 

dear,"  said  he,  "  permit  me  to  say  that  you  women  are  all 
alike.  You  are  just  like  that  excellent  Mrs.  Trevylyan,  who 
was  so  superior  to  fashion,  and  yet  she  wanted  Rose  to  be 
a  '  woman  of  the  world.' " 

Mrs.  Williams  had  her  own  mother-wit  to  help  her,  and 
she  liked,  as  any  good  wife  would,  to  get  the  better  of  the 
president  in  an  argument.  "  Do  you  think  Charlie  Alvord 
will  be  a  country  parson  ?"  said  she. 

"  No,  no  ;  he  is  born  to  be  a  statesman  and  a  politician. 
Charlie  is  a  natural  leader,  an  orator — " 

"  Do  you  think  Edward  Mackintosh  would  make  a  good 
schoolmaster?" 

"Why,  no.  Elizabeth,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
Edward  is  to  be  a  man  of  affairs ;  his  mind  is  comprehen- 
sive. He  will  govern  great  enterprises,  and  be  the  head 
and  front  of  railroads,  banks,  insurance  companies,  etc." 

"Do  you  think  Peter  Champlin  would  make  a  good 
soldier  ?" 

"  No,  no.  Peter  was  born  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  and  he 
will  make  an  admirable  one." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "  women  are  born  with 
the  same  diversity  of  intellect.  I  was  born  to  be  a  domes- 
tic, home-loving  wife  and  mother;  our  daughter  was  born 
to  be  a  teacher ;  our  Rose  was  born  to  be  a  leader  of 
society  and  a  woman  of  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Williams. 

The  president  looked  at  his  wife  with  an  expression  of 
dismay.  "  Elizabeth,"  said  he,  "  have  you  been  studying 
casuistry?" 

"  No,  dear ;  I  don't  know  what  that  means.  But  I  have 
common-sense,  I  hope." 

"  Elizabeth,  you  are  a  great  woman,"  said  the  president. 
"  But  poor  Rose  is  to  try  to  be  a  governess.  She  wants 


224  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

to  begin  immediately.     See,  I  have  this  funny  letter  from 
a  little  Frenchman  in  New  York.     Do  read  it." 

"  President  Williams  : 

"  SARE, — I  have  the  honor  to  wish  serve  Miss  Rose  Chadwick, 
whom  my  rascal  brother  in  the  law  Hathorne  Mack  do  cheat.  She 
have  write  to  me  she  like  teach  my  leetle  boy,  who  love  her  mooch. 
My  wife  say  she  love  Miss  Rose,  and  make  her  welcome  to  Saratoga 
the  July  prochain.  I  give  Miss  Rose  what  she  want  of  monies,  and 
all  the  honor  and  respect  which  I  for  her  feel  is  too  mooch  for  my 
words.  Excuse  the  english  of  my  hand.  1  can  spik  your  nobie 
language,  but  when  I  write  him  the  idiotisms  troubles  me.  The 
time  for  the  mails  begins  to  come,  so  I  sends  my  respects  to  Miss 
Rose,  and  Pierre  her  sends  one  thousand  kisses. 

"  I  am,  noble  sare,  your  very  humble  servent, 

"  JEAN  PIERRE  PHILIPPEAD." 

In  talking  with  Rose,  Mrs.  Williams  found  that  the  girl 
was  determined  to  take  this  position. 

"  I  know  these  people  well,  dear  aunt,"  said  she. 
"  Marie  is  silly,  but  she  is  neither  cruel  nor  vicious.  Her 
husband  is  the  best-hearted  little  man  in  the  world  ;  Pierre 
is  the  dearest  child.  If  I  must  work  for  my  living,  could 
I  go  where  I  would  be  happier  than  with  them  ?  Of 
course  I  must  meet  sorrow,  mortification;  a  different 
position  will  bring  with  it,  of  course,  many  a  rub;  but  I 
feel  sure  that  nothing  can  shock  or  harm  me  further.  My 
year  with  you  has  given  me  such  different  ideas  of  what 
life  is  that  I  can  bear  anything.  Let  me  at  least  go  and 
try." 

"  You  shall,  my  dear,  if  you  will  promise  me  that,  if  the 
shoe  hurts,  you  will  cast  it  from  you,  and  come  back  to 
me." 

"  Dear,  dear  woman,  I  will,"  said  Rose. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  225 


XXX. 

IT  was  summer — summer  at  Saratoga,  that  full  and  hap- 
py and  gay  watering-place — and  the  most  serene,  satisfied, 
and  fashionable  young  married  belle  was  Mrs.  Philippeau. 
She  had  brought  up  horses  and  carriages  and  servants,  a 
superb  toilet  from  Worth,  and  also  Ludley,  the  silent, 
superior,  and  mysterious  waiter  whom  Jack  Townley  had 
called  "  perfection  "  as  he  answered  the  bell. 

Marie  had  written  to  Rose  an  affectionate  and,  for  her, 
very  admirable  letter,  explaining  that  she  had  quarrelled 
with  her  brother,  had  found  out  things  she  did  not  like  in 
his  conduct,  and  assuring  Rose  that  while  with  her  she 
would  never  be  troubled  by  his  presence ;  and  she  had  so 
sincerely  seemed  to  desire  the  companionship  of  the  young 
girl,  not  in  any  patronizing  spirit,  but  as  a  favor  to  her- 
self, that  Rose  felt  that  her  privilege  of  rejoining  the  child 
she  loved  would  be  unaccompanied  by  any  disagreeable 
loss  of  dignity  or  self-respect. 

And,  to  do  Marie  justice,  there  was  no  bad  feeling  in 
her  heart  towards  Rose.  She  had  the  very  uncommon  vir- 
tue of  being  good-natured  towards  another  pretty  woman. 
So  that  her  own  vanity  was  gratified,  and  her  social  appe- 
tite appeased,  Marie  was  gentle  and  good  to  all  about 
her. 

From  her  employers,  therefore,  Rose  received  nothing 
but  kindness.  From  little  Jean  Philippeau  she  received 
the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  and  the  protection  of  a  father. 
He  seemed  always  to  be  trying  to  put  himself  under  her 


226  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

feet,  and  she  finally  said  to  him,  "Dear  Mr.  Philippeau, 
do  not  be  so  kind  to  me ;  you  break  my  heart." 

And  the  good  little  man,  seeing  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
said  in  his  innermost  soul  that  women  were  strange  beings. 

Mrs.  Morton  Birnie,  the  lion-hunter,  and  the  universal 
friend  to  everybody,  was  at  Saratoga.  So  was  Mr.  Wal- 
ters, who  had  been  so  effete  in  his  languor.  So  was  Mrs. 
Mortimer,  Sidonie  Devine,  and  Mrs.  Morella;  Jack  Long 
and  his  pretty  wife ;  and  Eastman  Jones,  who  had  passed 
several  days  with  his  friend  at  Charpentier,  using  every 
moment  to  the  best  advantage  so  far  as  seeing  Rose  was 
concerned,  and  also  putting  himself  in  possession  of  all  the 
facts  concerning  Hathorne  Mack  and  the  mysterious  death 
of  Pascal  Chadwick  which  the  president  had  chosen  to  tell 
him — he  too  was  at  Saratoga,  and  very  agreeable  he  made 
himself.  This  young  Harvard  man  was  a  new  sensation 
to  Rose.  He  happened  to  be  unknown  to  fashion — a  fact 
which  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him,  while  it  left  him  very 
free  to  walk  with  Rose  and  Pierre,  to  sit  with  her  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  piazza,  where  occasionally  she  was  to  be 
seen,  in  her  black  dress,  quietly  reading. 

Mrs.  Morella  and  Sidonie  had  looked  in  her  face  blank- 
ly, and  had  passed  her  by  as  if  she  were  an  utter  stranger. 
She  understood  now  what  Mrs.  Philippeau  had  meant  by 
being  "  cut."  Mrs.  Mortimer  was  very  kind,  but  cool  and 
patronizing,  and  moved  her  off  immeasurably  far  by  a 
manner  which  was  as  icy  as  ice,  and  as  hard  as  a  diamond. 
Jack  Long  and  his  wife  (Fanny  Grey)  treated  her  with  the 
same  cordiality  and  friendship  as  of  yore.  Mr.  Walters, 
however,  also  "  cut  her  dead,"  and  said  to  Sidonie  Devine 
that  he  had  always  thought  her  vulgar. 

"  The  trouble  with  Rose,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer  to  a  group 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  227 

of  friends,  "  has  always  been  vulgarity.  She  has  a  vulgar 
soul.  Poor  Laura  Trevylyan  tried  to  believe  that  she  was 
a  refined  person,  but  she  never  was — a  certain  vulgar  pret- 
tiness,  a  certain  vulgar  coquetry,  a  certain  paysanne  fresh- 
ness, et  voila  tout.  Oh,  what  I  suffered  from  that  girl  1  I 
really  believe  that  she  is  happier  now  than  she  ever  was, 
and  if  she  could  go  to  the  second  table  with  the  maids 
and  valets,  I  dare  say  she  would  be  better  pleased.  She 
cannot  take  a  polish." 

("Sweet  creatures,  women !"  whispered  Dicky  Small- 
weed  to  Jack  Townley,  as  they  overheard  this  speech, 
made  by  Mrs.  Mortimer  with  matronly  sweetness  and  vir- 
tuous enunciation.) 

Rose  found  herself  deserted  by  women,  but  the  young 
men  came  to  talk  to  her  even  more  than  she  wished. 
It  was  one  of  the  desagrements  of  her  position,  and  she 
begged  of  Marie  to  excuse  her  from  coming  to  the  great 
table  and  public  piazza.  But  Marie  wanted  her  help : 
she  wanted  her  to  tell  her  who  people  were,  and  how  to  be- 
have in  an  emergency  in  the  very  unsettled  condition  of 
American  watering-place  etiquette. 

"  And  then  you  look  so  well  in  black !"  said  Marie. 

Poor  Rose !  She  seemed  to  herself  to  have  become  a 
thousand  years  old,  to  have  always  lived,  to  have  passed 
her  career,  and  now  to  be  philosophizing  upon  it.  She 
felt  that  all  the  machinery  of  society  had  been  laid  bare, 
that  she  saw  behind  the  veil.  All  the  world  seemed  to 
have  dropped  a  mask  that  she  might  look  on  and  see  how 
hideously  insincere  the  whole  thing  could  be. 

Her  year  at  Charpentier,  following  the  fierce  and  sud- 
den grief  of  losing  both  her  father  and  aunt,  had  given 
her  time  for  thought  She  had  ripened  like  a  tropical 


228  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

fruit  which  feels  the  sudden  stimulus  of  heat,  thunder- 
storm, tornado,  and  then  quiet.  What  had  been  confused 
became  clear.  She  had  learned  to  philosophize.  She  was 
no  doubt  somewhat  morbid  and  bitter;  but  who  could 
blame  her?  And,  unknown  to  herself,  she  was  still  grow- 
ing better  and  stronger  every  day. 

One  thing  troubled  her.  She  saw  that  Marie  was  flirt- 
ing dangerously  with  Jack  Townley.  She  longed  to  speak 
to  her  about  the  evil  appearance  the  thing  had  in  that 
public  atmosphere,  but  she  did  not  dare.  It  was  not  her 
place  to  lecture  her  employer. 

One  thought  bitterly  oppressed  her — the  fear  that  her 
father  had  wronged  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  in  their  business 
relations,  and  that  he  had  dropped  her  in  consequence. 
There  came  back  to  her  his  confession  of  poverty,  and  his 
other  and  better  confession  of  his  admiration  and  respect 
for  Pascal  Chadwick.  Oh,  had  he  trusted  him  too  far  ? 

She  had  gone  down  to  the  lake  one  fine  morning  with 
Pierre  to  give  him  and  herself  the  pleasure  of  a  ramble, 
perhaps  a  fishing  expedition,  when  to  her  surprise  she  saw 
Eastman  Jones  paddling  towards  the  shore  in  his  wherry. 
He  immediately  landed,  and  asked  her  if  he  could  be  of 
service. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  boating  man,"  said  she, 
laughing. 

"  Miss  Chadwick,  such  is  fame !  Here  stands  before 
you  the  stroke-oar  of  the  finest  crew —  Well,  I  beg  of  you 
to  be  overcome  with  confusion  when  I  tell  you  that  Yale 
stands  in  awe  of  my  oar,  Princeton  blushes,  and  Colum- 
bia envies.  Now  allow  me  to  hire  a  convenient  boat  and 
to  take  you  and  Master  Pierre  and  attendant  maiden  out 
for  a  fish." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  2^9 

Rose  accepted,  and  they  had  a  charming  voyage  around 
the  wooded  shores  of  Saratoga  Lake.  She  liked  this  young 
man,  and  he  had  something  to  tell  her. 

"  Miss  Chadwick,"  said  he,  as  they  landed  for  a  little 
stroll  on  the  wooded  shore,  "  I  have  had  a  letter  from  a 
friend  of  yours." 

Her  heart  sank.  Could  it  be  from  Sir  Lytton  ?  "  Who 
— a  friend  of  mine  ?  Alas !  I  have  so  few." 

"A  warm  one  in  Mr.  Arthur  Amberley.  Here  is  his 
letter." 

Poor  Arthur  !  He,  like  most  devoted  friends,  had  been 
forgotten. 

"  So  you  have  been  writing  to  him,  have  you  ?"  said 
Rose,  after  reading  the  letter. 

"  Yes.  Your  uncle,  the  president,  put  me  in  communi- 
cation with  him,  and  you  see  that  he  accepts  my  proffered 
services.  You  know  I  am  a  young  lawyer  without  busi- 
ness. I  long  for  a  whetstone  on  which  to  sharpen  my  un- 
tried wits.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  coil  in  which  you 
are  enveloped,  the  almost  apparent  villany  of  Hathorne 
Mack,  the  mysterious  circumstances  attending  your  father's 
death —  Dear  Miss  Chadwick,  if  you  will  accept  my  ser- 
vices without  fee  or  reward,  if  I  have  your  permission  to 
join  Mr.  Amberley  in  his  search  for  facts  in  this  case,  I 
shall  be  your  eternal  debtor." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  wish  to,  Mr.  Jones.  My 
only  hope  has  been  that  all  might  lapse  into  oblivion." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,  Miss  Chadwick,"  said  the  em- 
bryo Erskine.  "Your  father's  character  will  be  cleared 
by  inquiry." 

Something  in  Rose's  face  told  him  that  he  had  trodden 
on  forbidden  ground.  He  was  sorry,  but  it  was  too  late. 


230  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

And  yet  the  nerve,  although  wounded,  responded  correctly. 
It  might  hurt,  but  it  must  be  done. 

"  If  I  thought  that  men  would  think  better  of  my  dear 
father — "  said  Rose.  "  And  yet  he  was  never  careful  that 
men  should  think  well  of  him.  Mr.  McPberson  said  that 
he  was  his  own  only  enemy." 

"  I  believe  it,  Miss  Chadwick.  I  shall,  then,  go  imme- 
diately to  New  York,  and  see  Decker,  who  has  some  very 
important  evidence.  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Amberley  ;  and 
perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  write  to  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  What  an  ungrateful  girl 
I  have  been  to  distrust  human  friendship !" 

"  Come,  Rose  !  I  have  caught  a  perch  !"  shouted  Pierre. 

"  We  must  go  home,  then,  and  have  him  broiled,"  said 
Rose. 

As  the  little  party  approached  "  Myers's,"  with  Eastman 
Jones  shouldering  his  oars,  and  Pierre  proudly  dangling 
his  fish,  while  the  German  Gretchen  followed  with  shawl 
and  cloak,  Rose,  tired,  flushed,  and  exhilarated  by  a  new 
hope,  they  met  Mrs.  Morella,  Sidonie,  Mrs.  Mortimer,  Wal- 
ters, and  Dicky  Smallweed,  with  a  newly  arrived  French 
attache  from  Washington,  who  had  come  down  to  eat  an 
early  dinner. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  looked  politely  shocked;  the  others 
sneered.  Only  the  French  attache  said,  "  Who  is  the 
handsome  woman  with  the  fine  color?" 

Strangely  enough,  none  of  them  could  recollect  her  name. 

That  evening,  on  the  hotel  piazza,  Mrs.  Mortimer  sweet- 
ly whispered  in  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Philippeau :  "  My  dear, 
you  must  try  to  teach  your  governess  propriety.  Really, 
we  met  her  to-day  under  the  most  compromising  circum- 
stances." 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  231 

"  Oh,  why  should  she  not  flirt  with  that  Harvard  man  ?" 
said  Marie.  "  He  might  make  her  a  good  husband." 

The  next  morning,  as  Rose  sat  reading  in  her  quiet  par- 
lor, Pierre  having  gone  with  his  papa  to  drive,  a  knock  at 
the  door  roused  her  from  her  study.  It  was  Ludley,  the 
waiter,  who  brought  a  package  in  his  hand. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Ludley  ?"  said  Miss  Chadwick. 

"  A  hawf  ul  secret,  miss !     Hair  we  halone  ?" 

Rose  started  up,  thinking  he  had  been  drinking ;  but 
he  had  not. 

"Go  on,  Ludley,"  said  she.     "What  have  you  to  say?" 

"  Miss  Chadwick,  miss,  T  was  the  friend — I  may  say  han 
'umble  hadmirer — of  a  woman  who  'as  done  you  han  haw- 
ful  wrong.  I  refer  to  Hethel  Marchbanks,  mum.  She 
hand  I  comes  from  the  same  place  in  Hingland,  miss, 
hand  halthough  she  is  my  superior  in  heddication,  she 
hain't  in  birth.  I  knows  hall  about  'ef,  miss,  hand  hoften 
carried  letters  from  'er  to  the  'On.  'Aythorn  Mack,  whom 
I  think  she's  married.  Well,  miss,  hafter  she  heloped 
from  Mrs.  Trevylyan's,  I  got  a  letter  from  'er,  hand  she 
sent  me  to  a  desk  in  the  hapartments  of  the  'On.  'Aythorn 
Mack.  There  I  found  a  bundle  of  letters,  miss,  directed 
to  you,  hand  sealed  with  the  hemblazonment  of  a  noble 
family  has  I  well  knows.  Hinstead  of  sending  them  to 
Hethel,  I  'ave  saved  'em  for  you,  miss ;  hand  my  conscience, 
miss,  won't  let  me  save  them  no  longer.  A-seeing  of  you 
in  your  black  gown,  looking  so  sorrowful,  'ave  touched  my 
'eart,  miss.  'Ere  is  the  letters."  And  Ludley  gave  her 
the  suppressed  letters  of  Sir  Lytton  Leycester. 

There  they  were,  fond  and  true,  fond  and  true.  He  had 
never  been  faithless;  he  had  loved  her,  and  had  told  her 
so.  The  woman  whom  in  their  innocent  folly  they  had 


282  A  TRAtfSPL ANTED  BO8K. 

recommended  to  Mrs.  Philippeau  as  a  governess  had  stolen 
them  at  the  bidding  of  Hathorne  Mack,  and  partly,  no 
doubt,  from  a  feeling  that  Sir  Lytton  was  making  a  fool- 
ish entanglement  for  himself  in  wooing  this  American 
girl.  No  matter  what  her  base  motives,  she  had  done  it. 

As  she  read  them,  one  wild  and  uncontrollable  impulse 
possessed  Rose.  She  must  telegraph  to  London  at  once ; 
she  must  let  Sir  Lytton  know  of  this  dreadful  crime.  She 
must  tell  him  that  she  at  least  had  loved,  sorrowed,  doubt- 
ed, wept,  and  had  been  thus  cruelly  wronged.  She  reflect- 
ed a  moment.  Jack  Townley  knew  of  Sir  Lytton's  ad- 
dress ;  she  would  ask  him  where  he  could  be  most  speedily 
reached. 

Jack  Townley  was  reading  the  morning  paper  and  smok- 
ing a  cigar,  as  the  little  note,  hastily  penned,  reached  him. 
He  walked  around  the  splendid  Versailles  -  like  interior 
square  of  the  United  States  Hotel  until  he  reached  Mrs. 
Philippeau's  cottage. 

Rose  put  the  question  hurriedly,  "  Tell  me  how  I  can 
most  easily  reach  Sir  Lytton  Leycester ;  I  must  telegraph 
him  immediately." 

Jack  Townley  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  What  a  curi- 
ous coincidence !"  said  he.  "  I  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  him.  He  says,  'Off  to-morrow  for  Zululand  with 
the  Prince  Imperial,  to  fight,  and  perhaps  to  die,  for  Eng- 
land.' " 

"  Has  he  married  his  cousin  yet  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  I  imagine  not,  from  this,"  said  Jack. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  233 


XXXI. 

ARTHUR  AMBERLEY  had  learned  much  by  his  Western 
journey — much  of  the  utmost  importance  as  bearing  upon 
the  future  of  Rose.  He  had  become  entirely  assured  of 
the  villany  of  Hathorne  Mack,  but  could  not  as  yet  quite 
reach  the  legal  evidence  necessary  either  to  arrest  or  hang 
that  gentleman,  although  he  felt  sure  that  he  deserved  the 
latter  treatment. 

A  powerful  politician,  a  mover  in  Wall  Street,  a  man  who 
held  the  fortunes  of  thousands  in  his  hands,  Hathorne  Mack 
was  a  hard  man  to  handle.  At  most,  Arthur  Amberley  only 
expected  to  accumulate  enough  evidence  to  make  him  dis- 
gorge some  of  the  money  which  he  knew  belonged  to  Rose. 
It  was  with  surprise  and  pleasure  that  he  received  the  letters 
and  visits  of  Eastman  Jones — a  young  lawyer  burning  for 
fame,  full  of  youth,  energy,  leisure,  and  with  plenty  of  mon- 
ey for  his  immediate  uses.  Such  a  man  was  a  very  rare 
combination. 

"  He  has  been  galvanized  by  Rose,"  thought  Arthur  Am- 
berley, after  talking  to  him.  Indeed  he  had — galvanized 
indeed. 

It  was  decided  between  them  that  Eastman  Jones  should 
go  West,  find,  if  possible,  some  Spanish  miners  who  had 
seen  or  heard  of  Pascal  Chadwick,  and  who  had  some  relics 
of  him,  and  in  that  way  try  to  complete  the  chain  of  evi- 
dence which  Decker  was  forging  in  New  York.  Also,  a 
shepherd  or  herdsman  who  had  been  in  the  employment  of 
Pascal  Chadwick,  and  who  had  appeared  in  New  York  about 


234  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

the  time  of  the  masquerade  ball,  must  be  found.  So  must 
the  governess,  if  possible. 

Meantime  Rose  went  on  teachiug  little  Pierre  and  nurs- 
ing her  new  sorrow.  The  thought  that  Sir  Lytton  might 
never  know  that  she  had  been  deprived  of  his  letters  was  a 
tantalizing  pang. 

Fortunately  for  her,  Mrs.  Carver  was  in  Saratoga,  in  a 
quiet  cottage  in  the  village,  painting  away  at  her  photo« 
graphs.  Mrs.  Carver  understood  Tart  de  tenir  salon,  and 
often  of  an  afternoon  the  gay  people  of  the  hotel  gathered 
to  enjoy  a  cup  of  tea  on  her  bumble  piazza.  Of  a  morning 
she  received  no  one  but  her  sitters,  and  Rose,  who  had  be- 
come a  great  favorite  of  hers.  To  her  Rose  went  with  her 
story  of  the  letters — to  her  alone — and  asked  her  advice. 

"You  must  write  to  him  at  once,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Carver.  "  Write  to  London.  The  letter  will  reach  him 
some  time.  Zululand  seems  far  off,  but  people  get  their 
letters.  Wait  and  hope.  But  write  to  him,  and  keep  on 
writing." 

When  she  had  a  little  leisure  Rose  went  to  Mrs.  Carver 
to  learn  painting,  and  Mrs.  Carver  sketched  her  pretty  figure 
and  head  as  she  leaned  over  her  work.  These  were  her 
happiest  hours.  Mrs.  Carver  had  suffered ;  she  had  known 
great  reverses ;  she  was  glad  to  comfort  and  to  strengthen 
the  young  heart,  called  on  as  it  was  to  endure  so  much. 

Meantime  Marie  Philippeau  was  making  a  sensation. 
She  had  decidedly  risen,  before  leaving  New  York,  by  her 
patronage  of  the  balls  and  entertainments  in  behalf  of  the 
"  one-armed  plasterers,"  and  had  had  a  complete  social 
success.  The  flirtation  with  Jack  Townley  now  became 
marked,  and  was  getting  decidedly  complicated  with  an- 
other between  herself  and  the  French  attache. 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  235 

M.  De  la  Marche  was  a  model  young  Frenchman,  with  an 
"air  noble"  and  a  waxed  mustache.  He  bad  come  to 
America  quite  fired  with  a  desire  to  see  those  pretty  and 
silly  young  American  married  women  of  the  doubtful  world, 
which  still  was  the  fashionable  world,  of  whom  he  had  seen 
many  specimens  in  Paris,  and  whom,  with  their  prettiness 
and  extravagance,  want  of  dignity,  and  utter  vulgarity  of 
mind  and  heart,  he  found  "  great  fun." 

One  morning  Marie  had  come  down  in  the  most  airy  of 
white  foulard  negligees,  all  fluffy  with  lace,  to  find  her 
Frenchman  waiting  to  breakfast  with  her.  Jack  Townley 
was  also  walking  up  and  down  the  piazza,  in  full  expecta- 
tion of  doing  the  same. 

"  Madame  est  servie,"  said  Ludley,  coming  out  of  the 
dining-room,  and  bowing  low. 

"  Allow  me !"  said  M.  De  la  Marche,  offering  an  arm. 

Jack  Townley  lounged  along  slowly  behind  the  pair,  and 
entered  the  dining-room,  pulling  his  mustache.  So  it  bad 
come  to  this,  had  it  ?  The  foolish  little  coquette  whom  he 
had  raised  from  the  dust  was  playing  off  the  Frenchman 
against  him  !  Ah  !  Jack  Townley,  did  you  not  know  that 
if  you  help  to  raise  an  obscure  lover  of  fashion  up  to  the 
point  where  she  would  be,  she  always  turns  and  rends  you  ? 

Mrs.  Philippeau  was  conducted  to  her  own  particular 
table  by  the  two  men,  the  lofty  head-waiter  bowing  before 
her.  Her  own  servant,  Ludley,  stood  behind  her  chair. 
To  hear  these  two  attempt  to  speak  French  put  De  la 
Marche  into  a  fit  of  the  toothache. 

"  Apportez  ma  vine,  Ludley ;  ma  propre  vine  il  reste  au 
boug  demi  dans  la  bouteille,"  said  Marie.' 

"  Oui,  madame,  certangmong,"  responded  Ludley. 

They  never  indulged  in  French  before  poor  Jean  Pierre ; 


236  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

but  then  be  was  not  often  present.  Marie  was  the  envy  of 
the  wbole  roomful  of  people,  the  observed  of  everybody,  as 
she  blushed  and  flirted  with  M.  De  la  Marche,  particularly 
as  Jack  Townley  sat  and  glowered. 

"He  is  jealous — absolutely  jealous — lady-killing  Jack," 
said  Mrs.  Morella.  "  I  am  so  glad  !  Jack  is  growing  old. 
His  hair  is  very  thin  on  the  top  of  his  head.  He  ought  to 
stop  flirting.  I  told  him  last  year  he  was  getting  too  old 
for  it." 

"  How  perfectly  absurd  she  is,  trying  to  be  fast !"  said 
Sidonie  Devine,  looking  at  Marie. 

"  You  will  sing  to  us  after  breakfast — will  you  not  ?" 
asked  Marie  of  the  Frenchman. 

"Oh  yes,  if  you  wish  it.     Where? — in  your  parlor?" 

"  I  have  asked  Mrs.  Carver  to  come  over  and  hear  your 
lovely  tenor  voice,  and  also  two  or  three  ladies  to  come  in," 
said  Mrs.  Philippeau,  as  she  rose  from  the  breakfast,  refus- 
ing Jack's  arm  as  she  passed  him,  and  walking  out  of  the 
crowded  dining-room  on  the  arm  of  the  other  admirer. 
There  were  those  who  thought  that  the  little  married  flirt 
was  doing  it  pretty  well. 

Rose  was  summoned  from  the  nursery  to  play  M.  De  la 
Marche's  accompaniments,  and  Mrs.  Carver  had  walked 
over  in  her  cool  lilac  muslin  and  broad  Leghorn  hat.  She 
•was  fond  of  music,  and  her  French  did  not  discourage  M. 
De  la  Marche.  They  soon  began  chatting.  The  gay  and 
indolent  ladies  crowded  into  Marie's  pretty  parlor.  Pierre 
was  allowed  to  come  in,  and  placed  picturesquely  near  his 
little  mamma's  chair.  Marie's  star  was  at  its  perihe- 
lion. Rose,  after  talking  over  the  music  with  M.  De  la 
Marche,  struck  the  notes  of  a  little  French  song ;  and  he 
sang: 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  287 

"  Certain ement  j'aimais  Clairette  ; 
Mais  dois-je  mourir  de  chagrin 
Quand  peut-etre  une  autre  conquete 
Peut  me  venger  de  son  hymen!" 

Then  Jack  Townley  sang  the  most  delicate  little  love-song 
in  English ;  and  both  men  had  passionately  gazed  at 
Marie  as  they  sang,  though,  indeed,  they  were  bound  to 
do  this. 

"  What  a  success  she  is  having  this  summer  !"  whispered 
Mrs.  Mortimer  to  Mrs.  Morella.  "  I  give  her  just  six 
months — no,  nine ;  then  she  will  go  down — go  out.  She 
has  no  staying  power." 

Then  they  urged  Rose  to  sing,  but  she  declined,  and 
motioned  to  Pierre  to  come  away  for  his  lessons. 

"  Go,  Pierre,  bong  gar$ong"  said  his  mamma,  rising  and 
kissing  him  gracefully* 

Just  then  Dicky  Smallweed  entered  with  the  papers  in 
his  hands. 

"  Bad  news  of  a  friend  of  ours,"  said  he.  "  Sir  Lytton 
Leycester  badly  wounded  in  the  last  engagement." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful !"  said  everybody  ;  and  they  crowded 
around  to  hear  all  the  details  of  that  dreadful  Zulu  en- 
gagement, where  so  many  of  England's  bravest  and  best 
fell  at  the  bloody  hands  of  savages. 

Mrs.  Carver  alone  looked  at  the  door  out  of  which  Rose 
was  going.  She  saw  by  her  sickening  pallor  that  she  had 
heard  the  dreadful  news,  and  she  followed  her.  Rose  sank 
on  the  nearest  sofa,  leaning  her  head  back  on  Mrs.  Carver's 
shoulder. 

"  Be  strong  and  brave ;  hope  for  the  best.  It  is  dread- 
ful, but  fight  bravely,"  said  Mrs.  Carver,  opening  her  dress 
at  the  throat. 

16 


233  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"I  cannot;  I  am  not  as  brave  as  you  are,"  said  poor 
Rose,  feebly. 

Physical  weakness  overcame  her,  and  she  passed  into 
the  temporary  oblivion  of  a  fainting-fit,  perhaps  only  too 
short.  Poor  little  Pierre  was  frightened,  and  ran  back  into 
the  parlor  to  tell  his  mother  that  his  dear  Rose  was  dying. 
So,  in  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Carver's  care,  the  gay  and  heartless 
crowd  came  in  to  look  at  the  unconscious  girl  as  she  lay 
on  the  sofa.  They  were  all  kind  enough;  one  gave  her 
smelling-salts,  another  threw  water  in  her  face,  another 
fanned  her. 

"  It  is  the  heat,"  said  Mrs.  Carver. 

"  She  heard  about  Sir  Lytton,  and  she  fainted,"  said 
Mrs.  Morella. 

"  Yes,  she  always  had  a  foolish  fancy  that  he  meant  to 
marry  her,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "Poor  girl!" 

"  She  could  not  have  been  such  a  fool,  could  she  !"  said 
Sidonie. 

These  words  seemed  to  pierce  "the  dull  cold  ear  of 
death,"  and  to  produce  an  instantaneous  and  powerful 
effect.  Rose  opened  her  eyes,  and  started  to  her  feet. 
For  some  minutes  she  stood  perfectly  motionless,  abso- 
lutely incapable  of  either  speech  or  movement ;  then,  des- 
perately arousing  herself,  she  gazed  before  her.  Some 
internal  tremor  seemed  to  shake  her  frame  as  she  looked 
around  the  room.  Then,  extending  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Carver,  she  said, 

"  I  am  quite  recovered,  except  that  I  cannot  see  very 
well.  Will  you  lead  me  to  my  room?" 

Marie  was  quite  provoked  at  Rose  for  thus  having  run 
off  with  all  the  glory  of  her  morning  by  fainting  so  inap- 
propriately. She  determined  to  tell  Jean  Pierre  when  he 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  239 

came  up  on  Saturday  night  that  she  must  dismiss  Rose, 
for  she  took  too  many  airs,  and  also  that  she  had  flirted 
early  in  the  season  with  a  young  Harvard  man,  to  Mrs. 
Mortimer's  great  disgust. 

Meantime  the  French  flirtation  went  on  fast  and  furious, 
and  in  the  off  moments  Jack  Townley  sulked  and  swore 
or  objurgated  Marie.  Occasionally  they  made  up,  and 
were  friends. 

M.  De  la  Marche  had  a  mastery  of  the  fine  art  of  flirta- 
tion in  all  its  branches.  He  knew  very  well  that  Marie  was 
only  cultivating  him  to  add  to  her  own  fashion ;  that  she 
really  liked  Jack  Townley  much  better ;  that  she  watched 
the  latter  in  all  his  moods.  Still  the  Frenchman  enjoyed 
her  good  breakfasts,  her  pleasant  parlor,  and  her  fine  horses. 
She  did  not  economize  on  half-bottles  of  wine  with  him. 
No;  the  choicest  vintages  that  he  chose  to  call  for  were 
brought  to  him,  and  put  down  on  poor  Jean  Pierre's  bill. 
He  was  of  a  frugal  mind,  M.  De  la  Marche,  and  paid  for 
his  wines  and  cigars  by  compliments  and  suave  words  and 
great  expression  of  eye — coin  alone  in  which  he  was  rich. 
Meantime  Rose  kept  her  room  for  a  few  days,  Mrs. 
Carver  insisting  that  she  must.  The  tears  of  the  young 
do  not  blister  the  eyes,  as  do  the  tears  of  those  to  whom 
misery  is  an  established  fact.  They  to  whom  sorrow  is  a 
new  thing  weep  and  recover  ;  and  Rose  was  not  to  die  yet. 
These  bitter  tears  began  to  take  the  form  of  a  luxury  as 
she  lay  in  her  quiet  bed  in  the  least  noisy  part  of  the  great 
hotel.  The  springs  of  emotion  were  being  sounded  and 
touched  merely  that  the  garden  of  her  heart  should  be  the 
better  prepared  for  the  flowers  of  joy  and  happiness.  A 
timorous  little  step  came  in  to  throw  back  the  shutters, 
and  to  let  in  the  sunlight,  and  to  put  a  soft  little  hand  on 


240  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

her  hot  brow.  And  as  Pierre  bathed  her  forehead,  and 
prattled  to  her  in  his  fresh  childish  voice,  her  eyes  grew  as 
clear  as  crystal,  and  her  smile  came  back,  feebly  at  first, 
but  later  on  it  grew  more  like  itself. 

"  O  you  slender  little  figure !  O  you  clustering  curls  !  O 
you  dear  boy  !"  said  Rose,  kissing  the  child.  "  If  you  only 
knew  what  you  are  to  me,  Pierre !" 

Pierre  heaved  a  sigh  of  deep  delight.  "  Do  I  make 
your  headache  better?  I  wish  we  could  go  far  away  from 
here  into  one  of  those  countries  where  the  fairies  live. 
They  never  had  headaches  there — did  they,  Rose  ?" 

"  No,  Pierre.  There  is  a  land  where  there  are  no  head- 
aches and  no  heartaches.  If  we  are  good,  we  shall  go 
there." 

"  And  will  you  sing  to  me,  and  shall  I  sing  to  you  ? 
And  will  you  love  me?" 

"  Yes,  Pierre,  always." 

In  their  passionate,  childlike  faith  in  each  other,  the 
young  girl  and  the  child  passed  away  from  the  sorrows  of 
the  present  and  the  mysteries  and  annoyances  which  even 
began  to  cloud  the  spirit  of  the  neglected  child — passed 
away  into  cloud-land,  story-land,  the  land  of  legend,  of 
fable,  where  all  the  men  are  brave  and  all  the  women  hon- 
orable. It  was  far  away  from  Saratoga,  that  land.  A 
simple  old-world  creed  did  not  prevail  at  that  fashionable 
watering-place. 

It  seemed  to  Rose,  as  she  told  Pierre  the  stories,  that 
four  gray  walls  opened,  and  that  she  saw  a  beautiful  lime- 
tree  walk,  roses  and  lilies,  a  stately  English  house  and  a 
beautiful  Gothic  chapel,  and  that  a  noble,  familiar,  and  be- 
loved face  looked  at  her  with  a  bridegroom's  joy  ;  and,  wild 
as  the  vision  was,  it  gave  her  comfort. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  241 


XXXII. 

WHEN  Jean  Pierre  came  up  from  New  York,  he  walked 
in  all  his  railroad  dust  and  disarrangement  directly  to  the 
dining-room.  There  sat  Marie  at  her  little  table  with  M.  De 
la  Marche  alone,  flirting  to  her  heart's  delight.  He  ap- 
proached the  table  and  looked  at  her  with  angry  eyes. 

"  Come  here  to  me  at  once,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  which  she 
had  never  heard  before.  "  I  have  ze  sometings  to  say." 
And  as  he  spoke  he  knocked  his  knuckles  on  the  table. 

"  Why,  Jean !"  said  Marie,  shocked  and  frightened.  "  Do 
not  speak  to  me  in  such  a  manner." 

"  I  shall  spiks  as  I  like.     Come  to  me." 

Marie  rose,  trembling,  bowing  to  M.  De  la  Marche,  who 
found  time  to  whisper  to  her,  "  This  is  some  treachery  of 
your  governess." 

When  the  married  pair  reached  their  parlor,  Marie  turned 
to  look  at  her  angry  spouse. 

"  So  you  have  made  ze  fools  of  yourself,"  said  he ;  and 
he  produced  a  paper  from  his  pocket  in  which  the  whole 
story  of  her  life — her  flirtations,  and  her  airs  and  graces,  her 
attitude  towards  the  Frenchman — was  carefully  written  out. 

"This  is  not  my  fault,"  said  she,  feebly.  "This  is  some 
work  of  Rose  Chadwick.  Now  I  insist  on  her  leaving. 
I  have  not  liked  her  recently." 

"Leaving!"  shouted  Jean  Pierre.  "Yes,  she  is  leaving. 
What  news  do  I  bring?  She  is  a  great  heiress.  Mr.  Am- 
berley  has  got  her  ze  silver  mine,  and  your  brother,  he  von 
d cheat  and  villain,  Marie." 


242  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

In  addition  to  the  article  in  the  paper,  some  one  had 
written  to  the  little  Frenchman  an  anonymous  letter  about 
Marie's  flirtations;  and  the  poor  little  man,  who  considered 
a  French  diplomat  as  being  of  all  men  the  gayest,  most 
dangerous,  and  most  fascinating  of  tempters,  the  man  most 
certain  to  betray  domestic  peace,  had  grown  jealous. 

Ashamed  as  she  was  of  his  ill-breeding,  Marie  could  not 
but  observe  that  this  arrival  of  a  jealous  husband  added  to 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene,  and  that  it  made  her  as 
much  or  more  of  a  heroine  than  was  Rose,  whose  great  good- 
fortune  had  been  noised  through  the  house  immediately. 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  it  could  not  have  come  before  Sir 
Lytton  Leycester  was  shot  all  to  pieces,"  said  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, kindly.  "  Perhaps  he  might  have  been  induced  to 
marry  her." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  be  handsome  to  ignore  all  we 
know  against  her,  and  go  and  congratulate  her — don't  you?" 
said  Mrs.  Morella,  who  always  took  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

Fanny  Long  had  not  waited  for  either  good  or  bad  fort- 
une to  befriend  Rose.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  the  claims 
upon  her  time  and  attention  had  in  a  measure  separated 
them.  Never  did  she  or  that  pleasant  fellow  her  husband 
ignore  or  neglect  Rose,  and  now,  when  they  heard  of  her 
good-fortune,  they  were  the  only  people  whom  she  would 
see. 

"  What  are  your  plans,  Rose  f '  asked  Mrs.  Long,  who  was 
shocked  to  see  how  changed  and  haggard  Rose  looked. 

"  Mrs.  Carver  has  promised  to  become  my  friend  and 
chaperon,"  said  she.  "  I  must  go  immediately  to  New 
York  to  thank  Mr.  Amberley,  and  to  attend  to  my  business. 
There  is  much  that  needs  my  personal  superintendence. 
Then  I  shall  go  back  to  Chadwick's  Falls,  nor  leave  there 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  243 

until  every  shadow  is  cleared  from  my  dear  father's  name 
and  memory.  Oh,  the  saddest  of  my  sorrows  is  this — I 
sometimes  have  doubted  him  myself !" 

Now  let  us  go  for  a  moment  to  Zululand.  The  hospital 
was  full  of  wounded  men,  some  of  them  dying,  some  better, 
but  full  of  pain ;  some  of  them  well  enough  to  sit  up  and 
play  at  cards,  and  one  or  two  out  walking  in  the  soft  warm 
air  under  the  catalpas.  One,  with  a  military  air,  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  went  limping  up  and  down;  and 
as  he  reached  the  iron  gate  at  the  end  of  the  long  walk,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  gravel,  flower-pots,  and  dog-kennels 
which  filled  the  open  space  beyond,  uttered  a  sigh,  al- 
most a  groan,  as  he  saw  the  postman  depart,  having  left 
him  nothing. 

He  turned  to  take  his  place  at  one  of  the  little  round 
tables,  at  which  sat  Colonel  Bouvier,  the  most  impressive  of 
old  soldiers.  With  his  piercing  gray  eye,  white  mustache, 
and  clean-shaved  chin,  Colonel  Bouvier  always  seemed  to 
be  ready  for  parade.  His  oaths  were  many,  his  subjects  of 
conversation  varied,  his  courage  enormous,  and  his  voice 
like  that  trumpet  which  it  is  said  will  wake  the  dead.  But 
as  he  welcomed  the  handsome  young  officer  who  dragged 
his  feeble  limbs  towards  him,  and  as  they  prepared  for  the 
dejeuner  which  they  usually  ate  together,  Colonel  Bouvier 
had  only  kind  words. 

"  Well,  Sir  Lytton,  pray  come  in.  The  sun  is  so  hot 
that  it  will  do  you  no  good.  Not  a  letter  yet !  I  think 
the  orderly  who  comes  to  us  from  headquarters  forgets 
some  of  them." 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  expect  one  so  wildly,"  said  Sir 
Lytton.  "  I  dare  say  they  think  me  dead  in  England,  and 


244  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

I  have  no  right  to  expect  one  from  anybody.  Bat  lately  I 
have  had  no  hour  of  quiet ;  every  morning  I  begin  to  think 
I  shall  receive  a  letter,  and  I  never  get  one.  Is  it  a  part  of 
hospital  suffering  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  think  it  is,  Sir  Lytton.  It  was  so  when  I 
was  young,  particularly  if  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case,  and 
at  your  age  there  always  is  a  lady  in  the  case." 

"I  admit  freely,  colonel,  that  there  was  a  lady  in  the 
case,  else  I  should  not  be  here.  But  if  you  want  to  hear 
more,  we  must  wait  until  we  are  alone." 

"  I  do  want  to  hear  more,"  said  the  old  colonel,  in  a 
sympathetic  voice,  and  his  words  were  siugularly  energetic 
and  expressive.  "  I  believe  in  presentiments,"  said  he,  as 
he  went  on  with  his  breakfast. 

An  excellent  listener  did  the  old  colonel  prove.  Inter- 
ruptions never  put  him  out.  He  spent  all  his  snatches  of 
leisure  with  Sir  Lytton,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to  say 
about  Pascal  Chadwick,  Rose,  the  unanswered  letters,  the 
fell  shadow  of  Hathorne  Mack,  which  came  across  the  nar- 
rative in  such  a  way  that  the  old  colonel  read  the  story 
between  the  lines. 

"  You  are  the  victim  of  a  plot,  my  dear  boy.  Why  did 
you  not  go  over  to  America  and  see  all  about  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I  had  not  the  courage,"  said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  That  sounds  well  from  the  leader  of  our  forlorn  hope 
at  Rourke's  Drift,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  should  find  out  that  her  father  had 
deliberately  cheated  me,"  said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  Well,  that  is  not  a  pleasant  sort  of  a  father-in-law. 
Come  here,  Tristan."  And  the  colonel  greeted  with  favor 
a  long-tailed,  fluffy,  superb  cat,  which  jumped  up  into  his 
lap. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  245 

"  I  am  always  listening  for  a  distant  sound,  and  strain- 
ing for  a  coming  hope,"  said  poor  Sir  Lytton.  "  I  suppose 
this  wound  in  my  head  makes  me  nervous." 

"  Try  this  novel ;  it  is  very  good.  Cherbuliez,  that 
clever  Frenchman — " 

"  I  cannot  read.  My  head  is  constantly  aching  so  that 
I  can  scarcely  see." 

"  Play  with  the  cat,  then." 

"  Oh,  dark  days — cruel  times  of  sorrow  and  suspense ! 
would  I  had  died  of  my  wound !"  said  the  poor  fellow. 

Sir  Lytton  had  not  been  left  for  dead  on  the  field,  as  re- 
ported. Wherever  he  appeared  he  had  always  inspired 
courage,  and  when  he  fell  his  faithful  soldiers  could  fight 
no  more.  They  carried  him  off  to  a  place  of  safety,  where 
he  had  revived,  been  put  in  hospital,  and  was  now  slowly 
recovering.  A  bullet  had  been  taken  out  of  his  thigh ;  a 
sabre-thrust  in  the  arm  was  curing  itself;  a  blow  on  the 
head  would  get  well  in  time.  But  what  of  this  wound  in 
the  heart  ? 

"  A  letter  will  be  his  only  salvation,"  said  Colonel  Bou- 
vier,  as  he  watched  his  flushed  face  as  the  orderly  came 
and  went  empty-handed. 

Sir  Lytton  took  the  advice  of  Colonel  Bouvier,  and 
played  with  the  cat. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  long  rows 
of  wooden-backed  chairs  in  front  of  the  iron  gate,  he  heard 
the  grounding  and  presenting  of  arms,  and  the  sharp  ring 
of  a  horse's  hoof.  Suddenly  all  the  hot  sand  and  the 
arid  landscape  changed.  He  saw  his  own  green  England; 
he  saw  the  lime-tree  avenue,  and  heard  the  song  of  the 
meadow-lark ;  he  saw  his  own  stately  house,  and  the  pretty, 
old  gray  chapel  where  all  the  Leycesters  were  married; 


246  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

and  a  face,  a  beautiful  beloved  face,  with  dark  eyes  and  a 
heightened  color,  seemed  to  be  looking  into  his.  A  moment 
more,  and  the  orderly  bringing  letters  came  into  the  court, 
and  there  was  one  for  Sir  Lytton. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  threw  him  into  a  fever.  Hope 
deferred  had  never  been  more  cruelly  changed  into  hope 
passionate,  yet  utterly  without  power  of  movement.  He 
had  been  aroused  from  a  stupor  by  hearing  the  colonel's 
voice,  which  sounded  like  thunder;  every  word  made  an 
echo. 

"  Ah !  he  was  a  noble,  intrepid  fellow,  a  good  rider,  a 
fine  military  seat,  and  the  courage  of  the  devil !"  said  the 
colonel.  "  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  impetus  of  that 
attack.  Ah,  such  force,  skill,  certainty !  His  word  of 
command  was  like  a  volley  of  musketry.  And  yet  I 
thought  him  but  a  holiday  soldier !  God  forgive  me ! 
And  now  a  letter  from  a  girl  has  killed  him !" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  he  is  not  dead." 

"No,  colonel,"  said  Sir  Lytton,  faintly,  "  I  am  not  dead," 
and  he  handed  him  feebly  a  little  sketch  of  a  young  girl 
in  black  leaning  over  a  table,  and  apparently  engaged  in 
painting.  It  was  Mrs.  Carver's  sketch.  She  had  put  it  in 
the  letter  which  Rose  had  left  her  to  post. 

"  Aha !"  said  the  colonel.  "  A  good  back,  a  neat  waist, 
a  perfect  profile,  good  hair — yes,  my  dear  fellow,  I  would 
live  for  her.  Is  this  the  fair  American  ?" 

"  Yes,  colonel." 

"Well,  Sir  Lytton,  I  should  sleep  to-night,  if  I  were 
you." 

There  were  hours  of  concentrated  thought  and  of  silent 
prayer ;  there  were  groans  of  anguish ;  there  was  many  a 
long  physical  struggle.  But  the  day  came  when  in  a  trans- 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  247 

port  for  England,  with  other  officers  and  men,  a  sad  and 
debilitated  handful,  stood  Sir  Lytton,  looking  over  the 
dreary  waste  of  waters,  as  he  thought  of  one  young  girl 
who  might  welcome  him  home. 

Meantime  this  long  delay  left  Rose  without  news  of  her 
letter  or  its  reception  for  many  months.  She  was  using 
these  months  partly  in  a  visit  to  her  old  home  at  Chad- 
wick's  Falls,  where  the  faithful  McPhersons  kept  watch 
and  ward.  Eastman  Jones  had  preceded  her,  and  had 
arranged  all  the  papers  of  the  murdered  man.  There  she 
found  a  number  of  her  own  unopened  letters,  and  a  num- 
ber of  others  in  the  well-known  hand  of  Sir  Lytton.  The 
letters  of  Hathorne  Mack  had  stopped  at  a  certain  date — 
a  circumstance  which  the  young  lawyer  considered  of  im- 
portance. 

Mrs.  Carver,  who  accompanied  her,  could  not  but  be 
struck  with  surroundings  which  were  so  unfamiliar  and  so 
grand.  The  magnificent  scenery,  the  wildness,  and  the 
barbaric  magnificence  which  had  marked  the  past  life  of 
the  dead  Pascal  Chadwick,  the  vineyards,  the  herds,  the 
flocks,  the  illimitable  acres,  all  of  which  now  were  indis- 
putably hers,  made  Rose  seem  a  sort  of  Tartar  princess. 
But  she  was  too  sad  amid  her  conflicting  memories  to  stay 
long,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  possessed  herself  of  certain 
facts  she  left  Chadwick's  Falls  to  take  up  her  residence  in 
New  York. 

As  a  young  heiress,  living  in  her  own  house,  with  Mrs. 
Carver  for  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  with  every  ad- 
vantage that  two  years  of  mingled  contact  with  the  world, 
study,  suffering,  and  experience  could  give  her,  Rose  en- 
tered upon  a  life  which  was  so  different  from  that  which 
had  bewildered  her  at  first  that  she  could  scarcely  believe 


243  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

that  it  was  the  same  city  which  she  had  once  entered  upon 
with  her  inexperience  and  tremors. 

Artists,  men  of  letters,  thoughtful  men  and  women, 
people  who  had  lived  and  were  living  useful  lives,  began 
to  group  around  her.  She  found  that  one  needed  only  to 
pass  a  magnet  over  New  York  to  draw  out  all  that  was  best 
and  most  dignified  in  every  society.  She  was  a  personage 
now.  The  culture  which  the  old  president  had  insisted 
upon  had  not  fallen  on  unfruitful  soil. 

It  was  not  only  the  picturesque  and  unusual  fate  that 
had  followed  her  which  made  Rose  interesting.  She  had 
never  lost  her  original  charm  of  spontaneity,  because  she 
had  never  known  of  it.  She  was  absolutely  free  from 
self  -  consciousness.  Nor  had  all  the  sorrow  and  shock 
which  had  befallen  her  injured  her  beauty.  It  was  of 
that  order  which  improves  with  time,  and  which  grows 
finer  as  it  gains  more  expression. 


XXXIII. 

Bur  what  of  Arthur  Amberley  ? 

It  was  a  singular  meeting  which  took  place  between 
Rose  and  her  devoted  friend  when  she  first  met  him  after 
his  great  service  to  her.  He  seemed  to  her  to  have  grown 
twenty  years  younger.  And  she  seemed  to  have  become 
another  woman,  older,  more  mature,  a  sad,  quiet,  beautiful 
creature,  who  looked  into  his  eyes  as  his  equal.  As  we 
never  say  what  we  wish  on  occasions  of  great  feeling,  Rose 
could  think  of  nothing  better  to  remark  upon  than,  "  Why, 
Mr.  Amberley,  how  young  you  look !" 


A   TRANSPLANTED    BOSS.  249 

Perhaps,  although  it  was  an  awkward  speech,  and  one 
which  Rose  blushed  for  afterwards,  she  had  not  made  her- 
self altogether  unacceptable. 

Perhaps  Arthur  Amberley  knew  that,  to  a  very  young 
girl,  a  man  of  his  years  had  seemed  far  older  than  he  was. 
Perhaps  he  had  reached  that  period  when  to  be  told  he 
was  looking  young  was  not  unpleasant.  At  any  rate,  to  be 
thanked  by  her  for  his  long  work  in  her  behalf,  to  see  the 
expression  in  those  radiant  eyes,  was  not  as  disagreeable  as 
it  was  exciting.  The  truth  was  this,  the  two  now  stood  on 
a  more  equal  plane.  Had  it  not  been  for  their  power  of 
branching  off  and  talking  about  Harriet,  they  would  have 
been  embarrassed  occasionally.  For  after  the  dull  details 
of  business  were  ended ;  after  Amberley  had  unfolded  his 
budget;  after  he  had  told  her  that  he  believed  that 
Hathorne  Mack  had  instigated  the  murder  of  her  father; 
that  he  had  certainly  tried  to  steal  all  his  property  ;  after 
they  had  talked  over  Rebecca  Ethel  Marjoribanks  and  her 
complicity  in  Mack's  crimes  —  then  they  would  get  to 
more  agreeable  topics,  and  Rose  would  say,  "I  do  not 
know,  dear  Mr.  Amberley,  why  you  have  done  all  this  for 
me !"  And  then  Arthur  would  ask  her,  "  Do  you  know 
why  every  one  works  for  you?"  and  the  situation  would 
grow  embarrassing,  and  they  would  both  stammer  and 
blush,  and  then  Arthur  would  begin  to  talk  about  Harriet 
again. 

Matters  were  in  this  perilous  way,  when,  if  poor  Sir 
Lytton  could  have  put  his  head  in  at  the  parlor  door,  he 
would  have  had  reason  to  fear  that  Arthur  was  making 
very  great  strides  towards  winning  the  heart  of  Rose,  when 
a  letter  from  Harriet  gave  them  the  most  wonderful,  inter- 
esting, and  valuable  news. 


250  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

She  was  going  to  be  married !  The  dear,  plain  Harriet 
was  about  to  make  a  most  excellent  match.  One  Captain 
Mortlock,  a  retired  officer  of  the  navy,  with  money,  family, 
position,  had  had  the  good  luck  to  win  Harriet. 

"  We  are  neither  of  us  very  young  or  very  handsome," 
Harriet  wrote ;  "  but  we  are  as  much  in  love  as  if  we  were 
both." 

"  Dear  Harriet,"  said  Rose, "  that  is  news  to  make  one 
happy!  I  hope  Captain  Mortlock  is  good  enough  for 
her." 

"  I  hear  that  he  is  an  admirable  fellow,  Rose ;  and  now, 
as  Harriet  elects  to  be  married  in  London,  I  must  go  over 
to  give  her  away.  Won't  you  and  Mrs.  Carver  go  too  ?" 

"  London !  No,"  said  Rose  ;  "  not  even  to  Harriet's 
wedding." 

A  deep  flush  followed  these  words,  and  Arthur  Amber- 
ley's  heart  sank  down  like  a  plummet  of  lead.  Amberley 
had  not  dared  to  think  over  or  to  question  the  matter  of 
Sir  Lytton  ;  nor  had  Rose,  with  all  her  frankness,  told  him 
the  story  of  the  recovered  letters.  That  part  of  Miss  Mar- 
joribank's  history  rested  with  Ludley,  Mrs.  Carver,  and  her- 
self. 

"  Mrs.  Philippeau  and  Jack  Townley  are  making  great 
fools  of  themselves  in  Paris,  I  hear,"  said  Arthur  Amber- 
ley,  very  suddenly. 

"Oh!  has  he  joined  her  there?"  said  Rose.  "I  am 
so  sorry !  Mr.  Philippeau  and  Pierre  came  to  see  me  be- 
fore they  left  for  France,  but  Marie  did  not.  I  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  Pierre :  he  clung  to  me  to  the  last." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  were  great  friends.  I  am  sorry  for 
poor  Jean  Pierre.  His  wife  had  not  head  enough  for  a 
fashionable  career;  and  that  episode  of  the  French  attache 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  251 

at  Saratoga  seems  to  have  driven  Jack  Townley  from 
trivial  flirtation  into  a  mad  love  affair.  Ah !  dear  Miss 
Rose,  what  fools  love  makes  of  us  all !" 

"  Certainly  such  love  as*that,"  said  Rose. 

"  Rose,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  turning  suddenly  pale, 
"  there  is  a  love  of  which  I  must  speak — a  love  which  is 
not  mad,  which  does  not  make  fools  of  us.  It  is  a  noble 
and  a  generous  emotion,  I  am  sure ;  for  it  can  stand  dis- 
appointment, and  can  bear  rejection.  It  is  my  love  for 
you.  Now  tell  me,  could  you  love  me,  and  be  my  wife? 
or  do  you  love  another  ?" 

His  mouth  was  firm ;  as  he  stopped  he  closed  it  with  a 
grave  and  steady  sweetness,  but  his  face  was  pale.  It 
moved  Rose  to  the  quick  to  see  this  man,  strong,  worthy, 
and  self-contained,  agitated  before  her :  she  the  little,  igno- 
rant Western  girl,  who  had  been  humble  and  pitiable  be- 
fore him ;  she  who  had  looked  up  to  this  noble,  true,  good 
friend ;  she  who  owed  him  so  much. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Amberley." 

It  was  all  she  could  say,  and  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

"  No  more,  dear  Rose.  I  read  it  all,"  said  Mr.  Amber- 
ley,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "  I  have  only  myself  to 
thank  for  this ;  but  that,  you  know,  does  not  for  the  mo- 
ment add  to  the  delights  of  a  man's  self-reproach.  I  fell 
in  love  with  you  very  early  in  your  career,  and  I  should 
have  known  that  I  was  too  old  and  too  dry  for  the  bloom' 
ing  Rose ;  then  I  hoped  that,  if  you  did  not  love  me,  you 
might  respect  and  like  me.  My  love  for  you  is  not  a 
fancy :  it  is  one  of  those  strong,  overmastering  passions, 
one  which  makes  me  almost  forgive  Hathorne  Mack  for 
all  his  villany.  It  has  mastered  me  in  spite  of  myself.  I 


252  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

cannot  tear  it  away.  It  has  grown  into  a  desire  to  serve 
you,  and  in  that  way  it  has  now  found  vent,  Rose,  in  a 
few  useless  words.  Eastman  Jones  will  lay  before  you  the 
result  of  our  joint  work.  You  are  rich.  Your  father's 
name  is  cleared.  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  enters  into  a  large 
fortune  through  your  father's  efforts  in  his  behalf.  He  is, 
with  you,  the  joint  owner  of  the  silver  mine.  All  this  we 
shall  be  able  to  prove.  Now  tell  me,  do  you  love  him  ?" 

Rose  sat  trembling  before  him  like  a  guilty  creature. 
"Oh  yes!  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Amberley,  but  I  do  love 
him." 

"Forgive  you,  Rose!  Yes.  But  it  was  necessary  for 
me  to  tell  you  that  I  too  loved  you.  Now  what  are  your 
relations  to  Sir  Lytton  ?  Does  he  love  you  ?" 

And  then  Rose  told  him  the  story  of  the  intercepted 
letters,  her  long  waiting,  the  silence  of  Sir  Lytton. 

Arthur  Amberley  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  hurrying  crowd  which  swept  up  and  down  Fifth 
Avenue.  Perhaps  for  a  moment  he  asked  himself  if  any 
one  of  these  were  suffering  what  he  suffered.  Yet  he  con- 
quered ;  he  turned  to  Rose. 

"  The  silence  of  Sir  Lytton  is  to  be  explained.  So  help 
me  God,  dear  Rose,  I  shall  find  out  everything  for  you ; 
and  now  I  ask  one  reward — " 

He  pushed  the  beautiful  hair  away  from  her  forehead, 
and,  stooping,  kissed  it  as  a  brother  might.  But  Rose, 
looking  up  to  him  with  radiant  gratitude,  unspeakable  re- 
spect, and  friendship,  rose  from  her  chair.  "Arthur 
Amberley,"  said  she,  "true,  faithful,  and  dear  friend,  take 
this,  and  this,"  and,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she 
kissed  him  on  either  cheek. 

"  A  little  more  of  this  would  reward  a  man  for  a  great 


A    TRANSPLANTED    BOSK.  353 

deal,"  said  Amberley,  returning  to  his  old  scoffing  way  to 
hide  his  deep  feeling.  "  Rose,  do  you  remember  Leigh 
Hunt's  lines  about  '  Jenny  kissed  me  ? '  " 

Their  eyes  met,  and  a  glance  in  which  each  read  the 
other's  love  and  loyalty  passed  between  them.  He  took 
her  hands  in  both  of  his. 

"  One  kind  deed  you  can  do :  always  call  me  Arthur," 
said  the  rejected  lover. 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  always." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Carver  entered  the  room.  "  You 
can  converse  with  more  than  one  woman  at  a  time,  can 
you  not  ?"  said  she,  with  ready  tact,  for  she  saw  that  some 
exciting  conversation  had  transpired. 

"  Yes,"  said  Amberley.  "  I  was  just  telling  Miss  Rose 
that  all  female  faults  were  virtues  carried  to  excess,  and  we 
got  into  a  fight  over  it.  I  say  that  women  talk  better 
when  alone  with  men.  She  desires  a  crowd,  and  says  I  do 
not  appreciate  woman's  talents  and  fascination  and  powers  of 
conversation.  I  say  that  her  '  social  anxiety '  ruins  her  when 
in  company,  and  that  her  mind  loses  its  power  to  work 
vigorously.  Now  leave  her  alone  with  her  enemy,  man, 
and  she  talks  well ;  she  makes  the  man  talk  well — that  is, 
tolerably.  In  society  she  increases  the  amount  of  talk,  but 
she  dilutes  the  quality.  To  which  Miss  Rose  says  no." 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind,  nor  did  he,"  said  Rose. 

"  Women  dread  taciturnity  ;  they  consider  a  pause  as 
fatal ;  they  are  deficient  in  the  graceful  talent  of  listening. 
Men  have  no  difficulty  in  remaining  silent,  but  no  woman 
can  do  so  gracefully ;  they  consider  silence  as  synonymous 
with  bad  manners.  They  talk  from  amiability  in  society, 
having  nothing  to  say.  Now  when  alone  with  a  man  a 

woman  always  talks  well,"  Arthur  rambled  on, 

17 


254  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

"I  think  I  had  better  leave,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Carver, 
laughing. 

"Mr.  Amberley  is  spinning  an  imaginary  conversation 
out  of  his  brain,"  said  Rose  ;  "  he  is  not  telling  you  one 
word  of  the  truth.  Now  I  shall  leave  you,  and  I  leave  my 
character  behind  me." 

Rose  escaped  to  her  room,  and  Mrs.  Carver  and  Arthur 
had  a  long  talk  about  Sir  Lytton.  Neither  of  them  knew 
yet  what  were  his  present  feelings  towards  Rose,  or  indeed 
if  he  were  alive  or  dead  ;  but  both  had  the  welfare  of  their 
beloved  girl  so  intensely  at  heart  that  it  should  go  hard  but 
they  found  out. 

"  That  is  a  pearl  brought  from  afar,"  said  Arnberley,  as 
he  mused  over  the  morning's  adventures.  "  There  are  few 
such." 

"  There  are  many  such,  Heaven  bless  them !"  said  Mrs. 
Carver,  "  and  the  best  of  you  men  may  well  kneel  before 
them  as  before  the  presence  of  a  superior  divinity." 

"Here  come  some  of  the  opposite  sort,"  said  Arthur, 
still  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Mrs.  Morella's  carriage  stops  the  way.  She  is  no 
divinity,  no  pearl  brought  from  afar.  She  has  some  dis- 
agreeable news,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Carver. 

"  Excuse  Miss  Chadwick,  then,"  urged  Arthur. 

"  Mrs.  Morella  is  inside  the  door,  and  I  must  see  her," 
said  Mrs.  Carver. 

Mrs.  Morella  was  full  of  news.  "  Did  you  know  that 
Jack  Townley  and  Mrs.  Philippeau  had  run  away  together, 
and  all  Paris  is  in  a  turmoil  ?  She  pretended  to  drown 
herself,  and  a  bundle  of  her  clothes  was  found  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  but  she  and  Townley  were  tracked  to 
Italy.  Her  poor  little  husband !  I  dare  say  he  will  suffer; 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  255 

but  he  was  a  very  vulgar  little  man,  not  at  all  her  equal. 
For  my  part,  I  felt  very  sorry  for  Marie.  And  do  you 
know  it  has  come  out  that  Hathorne  Mack  was  secretly 
married  to  that  horrid  red-headed  governess  of  hers?  And 
how  Miss  Chadwick  must  feel  when  she  reflects  that  she 
had  such  a  person  about  her !" 

"  Miss  Chadwick  has  known  the  latter  fact  for  months," 
said  Arthur  Amberley.  "  You  know  it  was  part  of  a  con- 
spiracy to  cheat  her  out  of  her  very  large  fortune." 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  said  Mrs.  Morella.  "  Why,  isn't  life 
dreadful !  And  to  think  of  Jack  Townley  !  Well,  I  sup- 
pose Marie  will  get  a  divorce  and  marry  him,  and  then 
they  will  hate  each  other  forever  afterwards.  Is  Hathorne 
Mack  ruined  ?"  said  Mrs.  Morella,  pausing  to  breathe. 

"I  should  say  he  was;  but  no  man  ever  knows  when 
Hathorne  Mack  is  ruined,"  said  Amberley.  "  He  is  like 
that  California  poison-oak  which  dies  down  in  one  branch, 
and  then  puts  forth  as  another  plant.  He  is  concealing  his 
straits  by  a  judicious  economy  just  now,  I  believe." 

"  And  that  creature,  he  does  not  mean  to  acknowledge 
her  as  his  wife,  does  he  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Morella.  You  will  be  calling  on  her  next 
year." 

"  Bah !  Mr.  Amberley,  there  must  be  an  end  even  to 
your  joking." 

"  Well,  well.  Would  you  like  a  new  piece  of  news — 
brand-new  news?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  You  are  engaged  to  Miss  Chadwick; 
everybody  says  so." 

"No  such  good  luck.  But  Harriet  is  the  fortunate 
member  of  our  family.  Mrs.  Carver,  tell  Mrs.  Morella  that 
Harriet  is  going  to  marry  the  Duke  of  Nocastle,  and  is  in 


256  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

a  fair  way  to  succeed  to  the  English  throne."     And  so, 
bowing  and  smiling,  Arthur  Amberley  took  his  leave. 


XXXIV. 

IT  has  been  said  of  women  that  their  social  instincts, 
when  kept  within  due  bounds,  constitute  them  "  the  sun- 
shine of  life ;"  but  when  allowed  to  run  riot  amid  all  the 
possibilities  of  society,  will  transform  them  into  "  a  raging 
fire."  It  is  the  truth  that  the  fashionable  women  who  in 
these  days  exercise  the  greatest  influence  in  arranging  life, 
and  compelling  society  to  be  what  it  is,  do  hunger  perpetu- 
ally for  excitement  and  a  round  of  gayety.  Their  physique 
is  not  quite  equal  to  this  strain ;  hence  they  grow  ill-nat- 
ured, and  after  the  "  flagging  of  the  flesh  "  comes  the  unquiet- 
ness  of  the  spirit.  If  a  man  cannot  keep  up  to  all  this,  a 
heartless  woman  of  the  world  taunts  him  with  the  fact  that 
he  is  allowing  his  youth  to  depart,  that  he  is  growing  old. 
She  stimulates  his  amour  propre,  calls  him  rusty,  says  he 
needs  shaking  up.  Hence  society  gets  to  the  point  where 
the  excessive  influence  of  gay  married  women  and  of 
younger  men,  where  aggravated  ostentation  and  rivalry, 
are  constantly  felt  and  deplored  by  the  more  quiet,  sensi- 
ble, and  elderly  men.  No  one  can  say  that  these  leaders 
of  the  gayest  set  cherish  very  lofty  ideals  of  life.  They 
prefer  the  looks  of  things  to  the  thing  itself ;  they  prefer  a 
flirtation  to  a  love  affair ;  above  all  things,  they  love  eclat. 
They  are  quite  inconsequent.  Hence  come  the  great 
surprise  and  the  very  severe  shock  with  which  such  a 
•woman  as  Mrs.  Morella  hears  that  a  Mrs.  Philippeau  has 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  257 

done  so  foolish  a  thing  as  to  run  away  with  a  Jack 
Townley. 

To  Mrs.  Morella  "  appearances  "  had  been  inculcated  as  a 
virtue  from  her  earliest  childhood  ;  no  matter  what  she  did, 
so  that  les  convenances  were  observed.  To  poor,  low-born 
Marie  Philippeau,  "  appearances  "  were  things  of  which  she 
had  heard  little. 

"  Society  puts  the  premium  on  the  lie  " — so  says  a  mod- 
ern cynic.  None  of  these  women  wished  to  hear  the  truth. 
They  did  not  wish  for  disgrace  or  the  legitimate  conse- 
quence of  their  own  acts.  To  do  them  justice,  there  was 
never  very  much  heart  in  their  love  affairs ;  they  were  all 
done  to  be  seen  of — other  women. 

With  poor  Marie  Philippeau,  perhaps,  the  crime,  analyzed 
in  the  crucible,  was  not  so  great  as  a  course  of  prudent 
deception  would  have  been.  She  threw  away  a  world  of 
which  she  knew  little  for  a  feeling  which  for  the  moment 
was  sincere.  But  her  conduct  was  a  greater  injury  to  so- 
ciety than  that  of  many  a  more  wicked  woman.  It  cuts 
with  a  two-edged  sword  either  way  into  the  safety  of  so- 
ciety when  a  woman  breaks  her  marriage  vow.  And  no 
people  were  more  severe  than  those  who  should  have  pitied 
the  weak  and  foolish  victim  of  a  weak  and  foolish  ambition 
— their  own  victim,  in  fact.  No  one  particularly  blamed 
the  man  whose  selfish  vanity  had  wrought  this  woe.  The 
utmost  that  could  be  said  was  that  Jack  Townley  had  been 
a  fool,  and  that  he  had  forgotten  his  social  position ;  for 
how  could  he  fight  so  low  a  man  as  Jean  Pierre  Philip- 
peau? 

And  for  him,  this  honest,  sincere,  and  humble  soul,  there 
was  no  voice  of  pity  but  the  one  which  spoke  in  the  heart 
of  Rose.  She  felt  as  she  did  in  the  first  hour  of  her  suffer- 


258  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

ing  over  her  mutilated  limb — sick,  faint,  and  overwhelmed. 
Had  that  unlucky  accident  of  hers  led  to  all  this?  She 
remembered  now  how  her  girlish  fancy  had  found  Jack 
Townley  all  that  was  delightful  and  fascinating ;  how  she 
had  suffered  over  his  early  snobbery  and  his  inconstancy. 
She  well  remembered  how  he  could  look  in  a  woman's  eyes 
and  charm  her  heart  away,  and  how  she  had  thought  him 
the  soul  of  honor — he  who  could  enter  that  house  to  so 
fatally  dishonor  it.  And  she  pictured  poor  Jean  Pierre 
and  little  Pierre  weeping  together  over  "little  maman." 
Ah  !  that  was  the  cross  on  the  dome  of  Marie's  disgrace. 

Kose  was  now  the  successful,  courted  woman  of  fortune, 
the  idol  of  the  hour ;  that  brilliant  vision  of  a  world  at  her 
feet  had  come  to  pass.  And  yet  what  a  murky  reality  it 
all  was !  The  bitterness  of  Marie's  disgrace  poisoned  every 
draught:  that  household  whose  every  act  she  had  known 
so  well ;  that  foolish,  kindly,  vain  little  Marie,  who  in  her 
•way  was  lovable,  and  who  was  Pierre's  mother.  It  would 
haunt  her,  do  what  she  would.  Then  hope  would  come, 
and  build  air-castles ;  they  went  up  mountains  high,  these 
castles,  all  based  on  one  letter  which  did  not  come. 

Arthur  Amberley  had  gone  to  England,  and  his  fine  tonic 
was  missing.  Mrs.  Mortimer  said  at  Mrs.  Freely's  ball  that 
Rose  Chadwick  looked  very  well  in  half-mourning.  "  But," 
said  she,  "  she  cannot  disguise  her  regrets  that,  after  all, 
she  has  not  caught  Arthur  Amberley." 

So  much  does  the  world  know  of  our  real  life.  Rose  was 
a  person  who  kept  her  troubles,  whatever  they  were,  locked 
in  her  own  bosom,  and  no  one  knew  why  she  wore  so  sad 
and  so  troubled  a  face.  She  drew  her  woes  closer  around  her 
than  a  mantle,  and  if  she  was  sorrowing  over  poor  Marie's 
disgrace,  or  over  the  silence  of  Sir  Lytton,  no  one  knew  it, 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  259 

not  even  Mrs.  Carver.  She  had  a  great  talent  for  silence 
where  her  feelings  were  concerned.  But  the  world  crowns 
him  or  her  who  conquers  it,  and  Rose  had  conquered  the 
world — conquered  it  by  not  caring  for  it  longer — and  so  it 
came  and  laid  itself  at  her  feet.  Every  ring  at  her  door 
brought  a  friend  or  a  begging  letter,  an  invitation  or  a  con- 
gratulatory address,  or  thanks  for  some  splendid  benefac- 
tion to  a  hospital  or  a  church.  For  the  young  heiress  was 
religious  and  good,  and  she  enjoyed  the  power  of  giving. 
That  at  least  could  never  be  taken  away. 

And  she  enjoyed  her  horseback  rides,  and  as  she  rambled 
in  the  Park  she  would  recall  all  the  delicious  days  of  the 
past,  go  and  admire  the  swans  sailing  on  the  water,  remem- 
ber what  Sir  Lytton  had  said  as  he  looked  over  the  blue 
of  the  distant  prospect,  and  how  he  had  pointed  out  the 
shadows  on  the  lake.  Fountain  had  a  successor  now,  but 
never  a  rival.  She  rioted  always  in  the  beauties  of  nature, 
but  somehow  the  landscape  seemed  to  need  primroses  and 
hawthorn.  She  wished  that  an  English  pheasant  would 
troop  through  the  grass.  Do  not  think  Rose  was  unpatri- 
otic. No;  a  woman's  country  is  the  country  where  her 
lover  lives. 

Rose  tried  the  blandishments  of  the  Dorcas  Society,  and 
studied  up  the  question  of  High  and  Low  Church.  She 
knew  all  the  details  of  the  turmoil  and  trouble  between 
High  and  Low  and  Broad.  She  read  the  History  of  the 
Popes.  Mr.  Christmas,  the  rector  of  St.  Sebastian's,  thought 
she  was  going  over  to  Rome,  so  devout  did  she  become,  so 
fond  of  the  holy  seasons  and  the  hours  of  prayer.  The  sub- 
lime, the  mysterious,  the  unknown,  the  Consoler  of  woes, 
the  long-sought,  the  much-needed  Father !  To  Him  conies 
every  waiting  and  sorrowing  woman  soul,  nor  care  they 


260  \    TRANSPLANTED    R08K. 

much  at  what  altar  they  kneel.  But  to  Ro»e  the  air  seemed 
filled  with  lifeless  emanations.  The  breath  of  the  spirit 
had  not  yet  come. 

And  then  she  tried  literature.  She  had  thought  once  or 
twice  of  putting  her  thoughts  on  paper,  and  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  a  little  story.  It  was  a  great  pleasure  while  it 
lasted,  and  she  put  into  it  some  of  her  secret,  sacred,  best 
thoughts.  It  was  a  record  of  a  part  of  her  heart-history, 
delightful  and  pathetic  to  herself :  as  she  read  it  over,  it 
seemed  good — better  than  the  generality  of  short  stories 
which  she  read.  She  signed  it  with  a  nom  de  plume,  sent 
it  to  a  famous  magazine,  and  in  a  few  weeks  waited  for  it 
at  Station  G  with  almost  a  guilty  sense  of  pleasure.  It 
came,  and  the  legend  within  was,  "  Returned,  with  thanks." 
She  did  not  know  that  she  could  be  so  miserably  disap- 
pointed; that  she  had  built  so  much  on  this  frail  bridge 
which  she  had  thrown  from  her  own  heart  out  to  that  dear, 
invisible,  and  beloved  public  of  readers  who  are  to  the  au- 
thor such  friends — friends  whose  hands  he  will  never  take, 
eyes  into  which  he  will  never  look,  hearts  which  he  will 
never  clasp  to  his  own,  yet  held  by  such  close  filaments, 
dearer  and  closer  than  many  a  brother!  Who  does  not 
(who  writes)  love  these  impersonal  friends,  and  long  to 
reach  them  ? 

The  joys  of  authorship  were  denied  to  Rose.  She  had 
to  learn  that  there  is  an  apprenticeship  to  this  trade  as  to 
all  others,  and  that  even  to  the  rich  the  gates  of  the  pub- 
lisher open  as  hardly  as  those  of  the  city  that  could  not 
let  the  camel  in. 

Had  she  been  starving  and  in  a  garret,  she  might,  too, 
have  failed.  An  anxious  eye  and  a  seedy  garb  do  not  al- 
ways open  the  door,  but  the  pressure  of  necessity  does 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  261 

sharpen  the  wits  and  nib  the  pen :  there  is  no  doubt  of 
that.  We  are  not  always  responsible  for  our  failures  or 
our  successes,  but  the  trade  of  the  writer  is  one  which, 
stimulated  by  necessity,  does  grow  large  and  real  to  the 
worker.  There  would  be  no  victory  were  there  no  obstacles 
to  overcome. 

Meantime  a  great  excitement  was  coming  to  her  in  the  re- 
turn of  Eastman  Jones,  who  wrote  her  the  following  letter : 

"Mr  DEAR  Miss  CHADWICK. — Behold  me  fresh  and  flushed  with 
victory.  You  know  that  there  was  a  link  in  the  chain  wanting  to 
perfect  our  case  against  Hathorne  Mack.  I  have  secured  it. 

"After  going  off  on  several  vain  quests,  I  finally  found  the  man 
Herzog,  who  put  me  on  the  track  of  certain  Spanish  miners,  who 
were  said  to  have  boasted  of  having  buried  a  man  whose  pockets  were 
full  of  gold.  It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  track  a  Spanish  miner ;  but 
fortune  did  for  me  what  my  own  acumen  could  not  do. 

"  I  had  gone  up  to  the  silver  mine,  and  was  looking  about  me, 
when  one  dull  evening  I  sat  out  on  a  felled  tree,  looking  at  the  sunset. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  man  chanting  in  Spanish  what  sounded  like  a  hymn 
to  the  Virgin.  It  is  not  a  common  sort  of  music  in  this  wild  place, 
and  it  attracted  me.  I  walked  towards  the  sound,  and  found  a  miner  on 
his  knees.  I  waited  for  him  to  rise  and  to  stop  singing,  then  advanced. 

"  '  Is  your  name  Jose*  Sanchez  ?'  I  asked,  for  Jose  Sanchez  was  the 
man  I  wanted. 

"  '  No,  master ;  my  name  is  Pedro ;  but  my  chiefs  name  is  Jose 
Sanchez.' 

' ' '  Could  I  speak  with  him  ?  I  have  a  large  sum  of  money  for  him,' 
said  I. 

"  '  Ah,  yes !  who  has  money  for  Jose*  has  speech  with  him.  Does 
the  signer  play  at  cards  ?' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  I — 'a  quiet  game  sometimes.' 

"  ' Caramba .r>  said  Pedro.     '  No  quiet  games  for  Jose'.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  where  does  Jos€  play  to-night?' 

"  'I  will  show  the  signer,'  said  Pedro. 

"  When  we  reached  the  cabin  of  the  great  Jose',  I  saw  a  picture 


262  A.    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

worthy  of  Velasquez  or  Murillo.  Imagine  a  swarthy  group  of  Span- 
ish miners  around  a  long  low  table,  on  which  stood  silver  and  pewter 
mugs,  bottles,  jugs,  and  brass  pots,  while  over  their  heads  swung  a 
lamp  which  might  have  been  stolen  from  some  church.  The  man 
Jose  had  a  red  handkerchief  tied  around  his  head,  a  very  handsome 
pair  of  black  eyes  looked  out  from  under  this  picturesque  head-gear, 
and  his  belt  was  stuck  full  of  pistols,  knives,  etc.  As  I  entered  he 
looked  up  for  a  moment,  then  went  on  with  his  game.  He  was  los- 
ing, and  in  a  bad  temper.  I  paused  and  watched  the  game.  He 
staked  his  last  dollar,  and  then  pulled  out  from  his  pocket  a  handful 
of  small  articles  of  gold  and  silver,  and  from  his  breast  a  gold  minia- 
ture case,  which,  as  he  threw  it  on  the  table,  sprang  open,  and  I  saw 
— your  picture !  Yes,  you,  Miss  Rose,  your  very  self.  His  antagonist 
grumbled,  and  called  for  higher  stakes.  This  was  my  opportunity. 
I  begged  of  Captain  Jose  five  minutes'  conversation,  and  promised 
him  a  hundred  dollars  a  minute  if  he  would  comply  with  my  request. 
He  needed  the  money  sadly  at  that  crisis,  as  a  fellow  named  Miguel 
had  cleaned  him  out  completely.  The  end  of  all  this  was  that  I  be- 
came possessor  of  the  miniature,  and  of  the  papers,  which  are  of  the 
greatest  importance,  and  which  include  a  letter  from  Hathorne  Mack. 
They  were  taken,  dear  Miss  Chadwick,  from  your  father's  dead  body, 
which  I  afterwards  identified  by  two  buttons  which  Pedro  had  kept, 
and  which  he  cut  from  the  coat." 


XXXV. 

THE  toils  were  closing  around  Hathorne  Mack.  He  was 
losing  his  hold  on  the  life  which  he  had  attempted  to  con- 
quer. He  began  to  be  compelled  to  explore  the  subterra- 
nean chambers  of  his  own  heart.  There  he  found  Murder, 
Cruelty,  Treachery,  and  Deceit.  He  had  tried  the  game 
of  the  midnight  assassin — at  arm's-length.  He  had,  with 
a  stroke  of  the  pen  and  with  money  judiciously  invested, 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  263 

planned  to  stab  and  kill  (while  he  stayed  in  New  York  and 
Washington  and  bought  and  sold  stocks  and  men  and  wom- 
en) a  man  who  had  been  his  trusting,  faithful  friend :  if 
he  did  not  drive  home  the  knife  himself,  he  had  known 
very  well  who  did.  He  had  tried  to  deceive  society  and 
God.  He  had  tried  to  win  a  woman.  He  had  been 
foiled  in  all  three,  let  us  hope. 

One  woman  still  clung  to  him,  although  he  did  not  often 
attempt  to  deceive  her  even  with  a  kind  word.  He  became 
dependent  upon  her,  afraid  of  her;  she  -was  necessary  to 
him — that  was  enough  for  her.  Adversity  makes  us  court 
people  sometimes  to  whom  we  are  indifferent  in  the  hour 
of  prosperity.  The  internal  poison  of  fear  brought  out  an 
eruption  of  humility  on  the  surface  of  the  man's  manners ; 
he  began  to  crouch  and  tremble,  and  to  call  himself  a 
"  wronged  man,"  and  he  railed  at  Fate,  in  good  set  terms, 
•when  alone  with  his  wife.  The  order,  the  watchword,  the 
essence  of  nature  is  to  defend  one's  own  actions  to  one's 
self ;  and  it  is  not  strange  that  in  this  world,  where  justice  is 
not  always  strong-handed,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  bring 
home  to  Hathorne  Mack  the  true  reward  of  his  crimes. 
He  had  cunningly  evaded  the  law ;  he  had  covered  up  his 
tracks ;  he  had  so  involved  Pascal  Chadwick  in  an  admis- 
sion here  and  a  power  of  attorney  there,  that  Arthur  Am- 
berley  could  only  frighten  him  into  restoring  Rose  her  prop- 
erty; he  could  only  make  him  disgerge  —  he  could  not 
quite  hang  him  yet;  nor  could  any  of  the  three  men — 
Decker,  Eastman  Jones,  or  Amberley — go  on  'Change  and 
denounce  him,  nor  did  they  wish  to  tell  (and  Hathorne 
Mack  knew  this)  of  his  'efforts  to  force  Rose  to  marry 
him. 

It  was,  however,  most  important  evidence  against  him 


264  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSK. 

that  Eastman  Jones  had  found  in  the  possession  of  Joa6 
Sanchez — even  one  of  his  own  letters. 

It  was  at  this  crisis  of  his  affairs  that  a  complication  arose 
which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  call  on  Miss  Sidonie 
Devine.  He  had  invested  some  money  for  her,  which  had 
turned  out  very  well,  and  she  was  grateful.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  up  to  this  moment,  although  society  had 
heard  rumors  against  Hathorne  Mack,  it  knew  no  facts ;  and 
Sidonie  Devine,  whatever  she  knew  or  did  not  know,  was 
remarkably  gracious  to  the  somewhat  wounded  lion.  In- 
deed, so  gracious  that  Hathorne  Mack  went  away  very 
much  elated,  and  determined  to  call  on  Genealogy  Arling- 
ton, as  he  was  called — a  man  who  knew  all  the  old  family 
secrets,  relationships,  and  intermarriages  of  all  the  old  fam- 
ilies. 

"  Who  are  the  connections  of  the  Devines  ?"  asked  Ha- 
thorne Mack. 

"  Oh,  all  the  best  families  of  New  York,"  said  Geneal- 
ogy, firing  up.  "  You  see,  her  mother  was  a  Tubbs — good 
old  Revolutionary  stock  —  and  her  grandmother  was  a 
Nobbs,  related  to  the  famous  Tory  family,  and  her  great- 
grandfather was  a  signer  of  the  Declaration ;  and  on  her 
father's  side  they  were  all  aristocrats.  There  were  the  Car- 
rots, very  rich,  and  the  Elands  of  Bond  Street — very  musi- 
cal people,  and  always  pompous.  Oh,  I  suppose  Sidonie 
Devine  has  more  cousins  and  relations  than  any  girl  in 
New  York,  and  she  feels  it  too — feels  her  blood." 

"  They  would  all  stand  by  her  if  she  married,  wouldn't 
they  ?"  asked  Hathorne  Mack. 

"  Yes,  if  she  married  well.  Money,  you  know — money 
is  what  they  want,  these  old  aristocrats,  and  no  matter 
who  brings  it ;  that  is  not  so  much  matter." 


A    THAJfSPLASTED    ROSK.  265 

Hathorne  Mack  had  many  irons  in  the  fire  besides  the 
silver -mine  and  poor  Pascal  Chadwick's  stolen  fortune. 
He  had  a  possible  fortune  in  one  more  adventure  which  he 
was  manipulating.  He  saw  plainly  that  Sidonie  Devine 
was,  for  some  inscrutable  reason  (probably  the  tombstone 
reason),  determined  to  encourage  him. 

"  By  Jove  !  I'll  do  it !"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  thought 
of  all  his  mortifications,  and  the  immense  moral  support 
which  such  a  wife  —  one  connected  with  the  Tubbses, 
the  Nobbses,  the  Carrots,  and  the  Elands — would  be  to 
him. 

There  was  one  obstacle  in  the  way  —  that  red-haired 
woman,  to  be  sure,  and  that  service  and  the  clergyman 
at  Harlem.  But  that  could  be  arranged,  he  thought. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  one  of  Miss  Marjoribanks's 
precautions  had  been  to  write  a  letter  which  in  three  days 
should  reach  the  police,  defining  her  whereabouts  and  her 
intended  visit  to  Hathorne  Mack's  rooms  on  a  certain  day. 
This  was  a  false  step,  and  one  which  she  had  deeply  de- 
plored. Her  precious  husband  had  taunted  her  with  it 
more  than  once. 

For  the  past  of  Rebecca  Ethel  Marjoribanks  was  not  one 
which  bore  looking  into  too  closely.  There  had  been  a 
diamond  robbery  in  England  ;  there  had  been  an  inquiry  at 
Scotland  Yard ;  there  had  been  one  or  two  crimes  here, 
not  to  speak  of  the  outrageous  complicity  with  Hathorne 
Mack  in  his  attempt  to  marry  Rose. 

So  from  place  to  place,  from  disguise  to  disguise,  the 
poor  creature  was  being  driven,  the  inevitable  Decker  upon 
her  track  all  the  time.  She  had  great  skill,  enormous  tal- 
ent, a  thousand  wiles,  devices,  and  arrangements  by  which 
she  baffled  pursuit.  She  taught  school  in  Jersey  City,  in  a 


266  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

meek  and  proper  manner  passing  Decker  a  hundred  times 
(a  pretty,  dark-haired  widow  she  was  now),  and  Decker  de- 
clared, as  he  thought  of  her,  that  she  was  the  hardest  bird 
to  catch  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Although  she  kept  up  a 
correspondence  with  some  of  her  old  pals,  no  one  knew 
of  her  real  whereabouts  but  her  vile  husband,  Hathorne 
Mack,  and  he  turned  traitor. 

A  letter  was  dropped  into  a  lamp-post  box ;  that  was 
all. 

Decker  was  in  waiting  for  the  pretty  school-mistress  on 
the  wharf  when  the  ferry-boat  landed ;  but,  alas !  she  did 
not  come.  No;  Hathorne  Mack  had  played  a  double 
game.  He  only  wished  to  frighten  her  out  of  the  country. 
Other  letters  had  been  written  to  her  by  one  of  her  supposed 
friends,  her  spies  and  accomplices.  She  was  a  country- 
woman carrying  eggs  as  she  passed  Decker,  who  she  now 
knew  was  watching  for  her.  She  was  thus  far  deceived 
into  falling  into  Hathorne  Mack's  trap.  She  became  aware 
that  the  police  had  tracked  her.  It  did  not  require  much 
persuasion  or  much  money  to  get  rid  of  her;  and  Ha- 
thorne Mack  saw  her  off  for  Australia  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  he  had  dared  to  hope  for. 

With  what  promises  of  following  her,  with  what  bribes, 
with  what  cunning  hints  of  a  life  in  California,  which  one 
day  might  be  peaceful  and  happy,  did  he  smooth  her 
path,  we  shall  never  know.  But  no  sooner  was  she  gone 
than  there  came  one  of  the  surprises  and  the  wonders  of 
modern  history  which  so  often  come  to  people  who  are 
watching  the  great  game  of  human  cards.  Hathorne 
Mack  was  engaged  to  Sidonie  Devine !  The  public  men- 
tioned to  each  other  that  unpleasant  rumor  of  his  marriage 
to  the  governess,  etc. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  207 

"  Oh,  that  never  was  a  marriage,  you  know,"  said  Dicky 
Small  weed,  who  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  heard  that 
Sidonie  was  really  engaged.  He  had  feared  he  might  have 
to  marry  her  himself ;  she  had  always  been  so  very  per- 
emptory with  him,  and  he  was  so  afraid  of  her. 

Arthur  Amberley  was  in  Europe  when  this  extraordinary 
engagement  was  announced;  the  people  who  knew  most 
of  Hathorne  Mack  were,  all  but  Rose,  away  5rom  New 
York ;  her  lips  were  sealed. 

"You  can  and  must  eongratulate  her  when  you  meet 
her,  because  she  is  your  old,  old  enemy,  you  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  who  still  kept  up  a  sort  of  half-intimate 
hatred  with  Rose — a  state  of  feeling  which  would  describe 
almost  all  the  fashionable  friendships  of  the  day. 

"  No,  never,"  said  Rose.     "  That  I  cannot  do." 

Harriet  was  safely  married.  The  only  sincere  regret 
that  accompanied  her  to  the  altar  was  that  Rose  was  not 
at  her  side.  But  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  was  in  London,  and 
showed  his  pale  face  at  the  wedding  -  breakfast.  Both 
brother  and  sister  were  shocked  at  the  ravages  which 
wounds  and  fever  had  made. 

"  It  is  my  fear  that  when  she  sees  me  she  may  not  love 
me,"  said  Sir  Lytton  to  Arthur  Amberley,  after  a  long 
talk,  in  which  that  excellent  friend  had  made  it  all  right 
with  him.  "  How  does  she  look  ?  my  love  !  my  life ! " 
said  the  poor  fellow,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  More  beautiful,  more  noble,  more  attractive  than  ever," 
said  Arthur,  bravely.  "  And,  my  dear  boy,  she  loves  you 
so  well  that,  had  you  come  home  without  a  leg  or  an  arm, 
she  would  have  insisted  upon  marrying  you.  Now  that 
you  are  only  a  well-born  young  English  baronet,  a  famous 
soldier,  and  made  interesting  by  wounds,  she  may  decline. 


268  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

It  would  be  like  the  folly  of  the  well  born  and  bred  young 
American  girl,  as  depicted  by  contemporaneous  novelists," 
said  Arthur,  smiling. 

"  Are  you  sure  she  loves  no  one  else  ?"  asked  the  lover. 

For  a  moment  a  shadow  came  over  the  clean-cut,  rather 
sallow,  and  calm  face  of  Arthur  Amberley. 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  he. 

"  I  did  not  know  but  this  young  Eastman  Jones,  this 
young  lawyer  of  whom  I  hear  so  much,  this  fellow  who 
has  been  of  such  inestimable  value  to  her,  and  remotely 
to  me,  in  finding  out  about  that  silver-mine — I  did  not 
know  but  that  he  might  have  found  a  place  in  her  heart," 
said  Sir  Lytton,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  hospital  despon- 
dency upon  him. 

"  No,"  said  Arthur  Amberley,  "  I  think  not."  And  in 
spite  of  the  knife  which  was  turning  round  in  his  heart,  Ar- 
thur Amberley's  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous  took  a  new  re- 
freshment as  he  thought  how  entirely  ignorant  Sir  Lytton 
was  of  the  real  power  behind  all  this  apparent  help,  which 
had  unravelled  for  him  and  for  Rose  the  tangled  web  of 
their  mingled  destiny. 

"  The  Cunarder  sails  on  the  2d,"  said  Arthur,  looking 
at  Sir  Lytton. 

"  I  have  already  taken  my  passage,"  said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  I  thought  so — I  thought  so,"  said  Amberley. 

Sir  Lytton  Leycester  told  his  lady  mother  that  he  was 
going  over  to  marry  an  American  girl  if  she  would  have 
him.  Tellisor  House  was  wrapped  in  gloom  over  this 
dreadful  announcement.  They  had  observed,  not  without 
satisfaction,  that  Sir  Lytton  had  ceased  to  watch  for  let- 
ters from  America  before  he  left  for  Zululand.  And  yet 
they  were  not  hard-hearted  women,  the  mother  and  sisters. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  269 

Rebecca  Ethel  had  not  found  them  so  when  skies  clouded 
for  her.  No ;  they  were  simply  true  to  their  birth,  their 
antecedents,  and  their  prejudices. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  the  American  women  they  had  seen 
had  not  been  of  the  most  attractive  kind — young  married 
women,  living  away  from  their  husbands,  trying  to  attract 
the  notice  of  the  gay  men  in  London,  and  especially  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales ;  young  and  beautiful  women,  extremely 
careless  of  their  reputations,  and  girls  wandering  alone  over 
the  Continent,  with  extraordinary  ideas  of  freedom,  chap- 
eronless,  utterly  devoid  of  reverence  for  les  convenances 
— such  were  the  American  women  whom  Lady  Leycester 
had  seen.  Also  another  type,  which  we  sometimes  see  at 
home. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings,  my  dear  son," 
said  Lady  Leycester ;  "  but  this  is  my  idea  of  an  American 
woman.  I  have  read  it  in  a  book,  but  it  entirely  describes 
that  strong-minded  Mrs.  Sproale  whom  I  met  at  Nice: 
'  She  invades  the  market-place,  she  storms  the  Forum,  sho 
directs  the  stage,  she  controls  art,  she  arranges  morals,  she 
prates  metaphysics,  she  rules  philosophy,  she  directs  poli- 
tics, she  is  everywhere  in  season  and  out  of  season ;  she  is 
rampant  in  the  house;  she  is  turbulent  out  of  it;  she 
usurps  the  public  parlor  and  the  billiard-room;  she  is 
thoroughly  at  home  at  the  gaming-table  at  Monaco ;  she 
smokes,  and  she  is — intolerable.'  " 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  should  think  she  would  be.  I  have  seen 
Englishwomen  who  answered  that  not  too  flattering  de- 
scription. Do  you  suspect  me  of  marrying  such  a  woman  ?" 

"  We  have  heard  that  when  Miss  Rose  Chadwick  first 
arrived  in  New  York  she  excited  much  ridicule  by  her  want 
of  table  manners,"  said  one  of  his  prim  sisters. 

18 


270  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

Perhaps  the  "lingering  influence  of  a  chivalric  educa- 
tion" caused  Sir  Lytton  to  blush  for  his  sister.  Perhaps 
one  or  two  recollections  came  back.  But  whether  they  did 
or  not,  he  simply  said,  "If  I  have  the  happiness  to  bring 
home  a  wife,  I  trust  you  will  all  treat  her  well." 


XXXVI. 

MRS.  CARVER  had  a  touch  of  romance  in  her  elderly 
disposition,  and  she  had  determined,  after  Arthur  Amber- 
ley  had  telegraphed  her  that  Sir  Lytton  was  coming  to 
America,  that  he  and  Rose  should  meet  under  somewhat 
romantic  circumstances. 

She  had  persuaded  the  young  heiress  to  take  a  country 
place  on  the  Hudson  River,  one  of  those  of  which  some 
always  stand  empty  and  waiting  for  an  occupant.  She 
had  pretended  that  she,  good  woman,  needed  the  fresh  air, 
the  ever-lovely  prospect,  the  summer  morning,  and  opening 
flower,  and  shading  tree,  that  amethyst  range  of  mountains, 
that  imperial  sunset,  the  belongings  of  the  great  river — she, 
Mrs.  Carver,  must  have  these.  Rose  had  thought  of  going 
to  Newport.  Saratoga  was  too  full  of  sad  memories;  it 
would  not  do  to  go  there  again,  where  she  had  been  with 
poor  disgraced  Marie.  No.  Would  not  Newport  do  ? 

Mrs.  Carver  was  gently  inexorable.  "  A  house  for  June 
and  July,  dear  Rose,  on  the  Hudson,  if  you  wish  to  please 
me.  Let  Newport  come  later." 

It  touched  Mrs.  Carver  to  the  quick  to  see  how  listless 
Rose  was,  how  she  yielded  to  this  change  of  plans  as  if 
nothing  troubled  her  further. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  271 

"  La  joie  fait  peur"  said  Mrs.  Carver  to  herself ;  "  are 
we  not  managing  this  thing  too  much  ?  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  allow  her  to  go  on  alone,  and  let  it  all  happen  in 
a  natural  way  ?  No;  I  have  committed  myself,  and  I  must 
trust  to  good  fortune  now.  It  has  always  deserted  me 
when  I  courted  it  for  myself,  but  never  when  I  wooed  for 
a  friend."  And  the  generous  woman  heaved  a  sigh  as  she 
thought  of  the  lost  fortune  arid  the  faithless  friend,  the 
absence  of  that  sort  of  secondary  Providence  which  had 
always  watched  over  Rose. 

"  No  one  got  back  for  me  my  lost  silver-mine,"  thought 
Mrs.  Carver.  "  Here  these  two  young  people  have  only 
been  asked  to  exist,  and  to  accept  everything.  Yet  they 
have  had  their  sorrows." 

Rose  was  delighted  with  Swanswick,  where  she  found 
herself  ensconced,  looking  out  on  the  bright  and  noble 
river.  Her  horses,  her  pony-phaeton,  her  model  servants, 
had  all  preceded  her.  She  loved  the  spot  from  the  first 
moment  of  landing  from  the  Mary  Powell.  The  early 
morning  found  her  up  and  ready  to  bathe  in  all  the  glory 
of  sunrise ;  the  wind  and  the  sunshine  greeted  their  young 
sister ;  a  long  and  picturesque  mountain  ramble  on  Black 
Manfred,  her  blooded  and  beautiful  horse,  followed  over 
the  hidden  ways  that  revealed  themselves;  the  splendid 
appetite  for  lunch  which  she  brought  home ;  the  evening 
drive  in  the  phaeton  with  Mrs.  Carver  to  hear  the  music 
of  the  band  at  West  Point — all  enraptured  her.  She  had 
been  "  below  tone,"  and  this  was  a  judicious  tonic.  And 
when  came  the  starlight  night,  with  a  crescent  moon  hang- 
ing over  the  tip  of  the  mountain,  with  the  sound  of  rippling 
water  and  the  peerless  summer  weather  all  combined,  Rose 
fell  on  Mrs.  Carver's  neck  and  said : 


272  A    TRANSPLANTED    KOBE. 

"  Ah,  you  have  worked  a  spell  more  powerful  than  that 
of  '  mystic  graces  and  of  woven  hands ' — you  have  brought 
back  my  happiness." 

"  Be  careful,  Rose,"  said  Mrs.  Carver.  "  Happiness  is  a 
dangerous  guest.  Receive  him  calmly." 

"  I  thought  '  Happiness '  was  a  woman,"  said  Rose. 
"  Why  do  you  say  '  he '  and  '  him  '  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  always  say  '  him '  and  '  he '  when  I  am 
uncertain.  Our  English  genders  are  so  particularly  vague." 

And  Rose  recognized  by  the  untaught  instincts  of  wom- 
anhood that  there  was  something  behind  Mrs.  Carver's 
sweet,  low  voice,  something  in  the  look  of  her  eyes,  which 
she  had  never  before  felt  or  seen.  Her  heart  gave  a  great 
leap,  and  her  pulses  beat  fast  and  irregularly.  Her  blood 
jumped  in  her  veins. 

But  speech  was  never  easy  to  her  when  she  was  moved. 
She  sat  quite  still,  and  held  Mrs.  Carver's  hand,  and  looked 
at  the  river  and  the  sky,  and  hoped  and  dreamed.  Happy 
Rose! 

Several  days  passed  in  this  paradise  brought  Rose  to  her 
finest  bloom. 

"  declare,  Rose,  you  have  a  color  such  as  you  first 
brought  from  Chadwick's  Falls !"  said  Mrs.  Carver.  "  If  I 
should  paint  it,  how  excessively  unnatural  it  would  look !" 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  blowzy !     I  know  you  do." 

"No;  but  I  would  not  ride  to-day.  Go  and  sit  with 
your  book  and  work  down  in  the  glen.  I  will  come  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  Very  well.     I  will  wait  for  you." 

Rose  took  her  parasol,  her  garden-hat,  her  favorite  vol- 
ume of  Mrs.  Browning,  and  her  little  dog  Pippa,  and 
wandered  down  to  her  pretty  garden-seat  in  the  glen.  It 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  2*73 

was  so  silent  and  lonely  that  for  a  moment  she  paused  and 
looked  about  her. 

"Rather  a  dangerous  place  in  which  to  meet  a  tramp," 
thought  Rose. 

She  began  reading  the  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship," 
and  lost  herself  in  the  fascinating  measure,  until  Pippa 
gave  an  alarmed  bark. 

"  A  tramp !"  thought  Rose,  dropping  her  book. 

Two  or  three  hurried  steps,  a  broken  bough,  a  trampled 
flower,  a  bird  flying  frightened  from  the  nest,  and  a  man 
stood  before  her  whom  she  did  not  know. 

"Rose!"  said  a  voice  which  awoke  all  the  echoes  of  the 
past. 

"  Sir  Lytton !" 

He  took  her  hand ;  there  had  always  been  something  in 
the  touch  of  that  hand  wholly  unlike  that  of  any  other. 

"  Rose,  I  have  come  for  you.     Do  you  still  love  me  ?" 

An  hour  later  the  lovers  sat  alone  together,  happy,  iso- 
lated, to  all  intents  and  purposes  alone  in  the  universe. 
The  great  fiver  went  rippling  on,  making  music  for  them ; 
the  boughs  watched  their  solitude,  nor  permitted  an  in- 
truder to  see.  Birds  alone  knew  what  they  said,  and  Pippa 
had  considerately  gone  to  sleep. 

"  And  you  doubted  and  feared,  Rose  ?"  said  Sir  Lyt- 
ton. 

"  No  matter  now,"  said  she.  "  There  is  no  one  like  you 
in  the  whole  world.  Surely  it  is  not  wrong  to  love  you, 
as  I  do,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  Do  you  think  it  is 
unpatriotic  ?" 

Her  face,  which  was  thrown  back  to  look  at  him  better, 
was  as  beautiful  as  the  face  of  Aphrodite. 

"  No,  dear  Rose.    Unpatriotic  ?    Why,  what  can  be  bet- 


274  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

ter  than  that  America  should  reconquer  England  in  this  way 
once  more?  It  is  simply  Yorktown  over  again." 

They  felt  safe  now.  They  could  joke  and  laugh.  The 
first  great  pang  and  pain  of  happiness  was  past.  The  silent 
breathless  embrace,  the  almost  inarticulate  vow,  the  moment 
when  existence  seemed  too  full — that  had  been  bridged  over. 

The  river  went  on  lapping  and  gurgling  and  beating 
with  lazy  murmur  against  the  rocks  at  their  feet ;  the  boats 
went  silently  up  and  down.  The  puffing  steamer  alone 
broke  the  intense  quiet  as  the  lovers  talked,  and  explained, 
and  supplied  the  missing  links. 

The  dreadful  story  of  Miss  Marjoribanks ;  their  own  early 
youthful  error  in  recommending  her  to  Marie ;  Marie's  own 
sad  fate,  on  which  they  touched  but  lightly;  Hathorne 
Mack  and  his  persecutions;  the  tragedy  on  the  Pacific 
coast ;  the  long  story  of  suffering  and  suspense  in  Zululand 
— all  had  to  be  told;  and  with  what  dear  and  precious 
interruptions,  as  hand  clasped  hand  and  lip  met  lip ! 

Their  voices  fell  to  a  softer  cadence,  and  almost  into 
silence,  when  a  strain  of  music  floated  over  their  heads, 
now  loud,  now  low,  now  rising  high,  now  dying  away,  but 
thrilling  and  full  of  majesty.  It  idealized  life  into  that 
poetry  and  romance  which  wait  for  all  lovers. 

"  '  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music,' "  said  Sir 
Lytton,  "  and  that  recalls  Zululand.  What  is  it?" 

"  Some  military  exercise  at  West  Point,"  said  Rose. 
"  What  time  can  it  be  ?" 

"  I  have  done  with  time,"  said  the  happy  lover.  "  Don't 
ask." 

"  Mrs.  Carver  will  be  frightened.  She  will  expect  us  at 
lunch." 

"  Lunch  ?     Why,  Rose,  look  at  the  sun.     The  meal  that 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  275 

she  expects  us  to  must  be  dinner.     Rose,  Mrs.  Carver  and 
I  are  confederates.     She  planned  this  meeting  for  me." 

And  then  Rose  found  out  what  a  friendly  set  of  traitors 
she  had  about  her.  That  "Swanswick"  was  only  one  of 
many  plots.  And  how  she  thanked  them  all  as  the  first 
days  of  betrothal  and  perfect  peace  came  and  went !  These 
are  days  which  teach  souls  their  own  value.  Teach  men 
and  women  their  own  great  value,  and  every  day  they  will 
strive  to  make  themselves  more  valuable,  more  worthy  of 
happiness. 

Rose  was  glad  of  this  beautiful  solitude,  and  this  absence 
of  gay  crowds.  She  had  wrestled  too  long  not  to  be  glad 
of  quiet.  She  had  stood  mentally  with  hands  clasped  over 
her  heart,  trying  to  still  its  tumultuous  beatings.  She  was 
not  at  fault  that  now  her  whole  nature  sang  aloud  for  joy. 
He  was  living !  he  was  safe !  he  was  here !  But  she  did 
not  forget  that  the  tempest  had  swept  over  the  land  and 
felled  the  mighty  tree.  Neither  of  them  forgot  Pascal 
Chadwick,  who  had  lived,  suffered,  worked,  who  had  given 
his  life,  that  they  might  be  rich,  prosperous,  happy. 

"  I  loved  him.  I  knew  him  well  before  I  ever  saw  you," 
said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  It  was  the  first  thing  to  make  me  love  you  that  you 
praised  him,"  said  Rose. 

Sir  Lytton's  face  grew  radiant.  "  I  knew  I  was  right," 
said  he;  "an  unerring  finger  pointed  you  out  to  me.  I 
looked  through  your  eyes  down  into  your  soul  at  once, 
and  I  found  it  pure."  And  he  folded  her  to  his  breast, 
giving  her  a  kiss  which  lasted  long;  his  love  for  her  was 
unspeakable.  "  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Rose.  Your  gen- 
erosity carries  you  away.  Divine  womanly  compassion  and 
love — what  will  they  not  do  for  us  men !" 


376  A  TRAtfSPl ANTED  ROSE. 

"  Oh !"  said  Rose,  lost  in  wonder.  "  And  yet  you  knew 
me  when  I  was  so  ignorant  and  awkward.  What  in  the 
world  makes  you  love  me  so?" 

"  Rose,"  said  he,  "  no  man  knows  why  he  loves  any  wom- 
an. I  might  give  you  a  number  of  reasons,  and  still  fall 
short  of  the  truth.  He  only  knows  that  he  does  love  her." 

Mrs.  Carver  had  feared  that  Rose  was  too  much  in  love, 
that  Sir  Lytton  was  to  be  utterly  master  of  the  situation. 
But  their  first  quarrel  came  too  soon  to  allow  her  to  be 
long  under  that  delusion.  Sir  Lytton  wanted  Rose  to  go 
to  England  to  be  married  in  the  old  family  chapel. 

"  Oh,  Rose,  I  have  seen  it  in  my  dreams !"  said  he.  And 
he  told  the  story  of  h-is  spiritual  presentiment  in  Zululand. 
She  told  her  vision  of  the  chapel. 

"  But  I  shall  not  be  married  there,"  said  Rose. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  your  duty.  All  the  wives  in  our 
family  come  there  to  be  married,"  said  Sir  Lytton. 

"  I  shall  not  be  one  of  them — " 

"  Oh,  then,  you  do  not  love  me !  Well,  all  this  has  been 
a  mere  abstraction,  and  I  must  give  you  up." 

"  Yes,  and  go  home  to  England  without  me,"  said  Roae, 
with  solemnity. 

"  Oh,  Rose ! — after  all  we  have  suffered  1" 

"  Yes — good-by.  I  never  will  be  married  anywhere  but 
at  Chadwick's  Falls." 

"  Rose,"  said  Sir  Lytton,  "  I  do  not  love  lightly.  I  can- 
not give  you  up;  but  I  must  be  married  to  you  in  that 
stone  chapel." 

"  Lytton,"  said  Rose,  "  I  am  not  to  join  hands  with  you 
in  any  meaningless,  formal,  fashionable  marriage  ceremony. 
My  duty  is  clear.  We  are  to  be  married  at  Chadwick'a 
Falls,  where  my  own  dear  missionary  bishop  heard  my  first 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  277 

catechism,  where  he  confirmed  me  with  the  young  Indian 
girls,  where  my  father  knelt  and  worshipped,  and  where  he 
lived.  If  you  leave  me,  it  will  be  barbarous ;  but  I  shall 
go  there.  You  can  go  back  to  England  alone.  I  shall 
never  go  to  England  except  as  your  wife." 

There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  that  word  as  she 
pronounced  it  which  seemed  to  thrill  Sir  Lytton  to  the 
heart. 

With  a  feeble  attempt  at  masculine  guile,  which  is  a 
poor  thing  anyway,  and  always  detected  by  a  woman,  Sir 
Lytton  tried  to  hide  his  defeat  behind  the  name  of  duty. 
He  murmured  something  about  her  father's  memory,  some- 
thing about  duty. 

"It  would,  perhaps,  be  a  tribute  to  an  honored  memory," 
said  Sir  Lytton.  "  But  really  I  do  not  know  what  my  family 
will  say." 

"  But  if  you  care  more  for  your  family  than  you  do  for 
me!" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Rose,  it  is  such  a  beautiful  old  chapel ! 
It  dates  from  the  days  of  Edward  the  Third." 

"And  the  little  church  at  Chadwick's  Falls  is  so  very 
new  and  so  very  ugly !  But,  Lytton,  we  will  be  married 
there,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  dear — how  soon  ?"  asked  Sir  Lytton,  anxious  per- 
haps to  obtain  the  marital  power  over  this  strong-minded 
young  woman. 

Mrs.  Carver  never  felt  alarmed  again  lest  this  wife  should 
be  too  subservient  to  that  husband.  America  held  her  own. 


278  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 


XXXVII. 

THE  next  month  saw  Swanswick  filled  with  people  in- 
vited in  judicious  groups  by  Mrs.  Carver.  She  knew  very 
well  "  what  the  world  would  say,"  and  she  knew  also  how  to 
give  the  world  a  hint.  It  should  see  the  young  Western  heir- 
ess at  home ;  it  should  see  how  the  inexperienced  and  igno- 
rant girl  had  improved  ;  how  she  finally  mastered  etiquette, 
learned  the  formulary  of  polite  society  ;  how  she  had  gained 
all  this  surface  polish  without  injuring  the  solid  gold  which 
was  the  foundation  of  her  character. 

And  they  were  allowed  to  hear,  these  visitors,  many 
an  argument  between  Mrs.  Carver  and  Rose  as  to  the 
expediency  of  being  married  at  the  far-off  Chadwick's 
Falls  instead  of  in  New  York,  at  Swanswick,  or,  as  Sir 
Lytton  urged,  in  England  at  his  little  chapel  near  Tellisor 
House. 

But  Rose  received  valuable  aid  from  two  unexpected  re- 
inforcements. Arthur  Amberley  came  home,  and  formed 
a  segment  of  the  party,  which  also  contained  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer. He  expressed  himself  delighted  with  the  Chadwick's 
Falls  arrangement. 

"  Let  him  take  you  from  your  own  place,  dear  Miss 
Rose,"  said  he. 

"  I  rather  wondered  at  your  wishing  to  rake  open  those 
ashes  again,  Arthur,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer  to  him,  later. 
"Why  arouse  all  that  talk,  particularly  as  Hathorne 
Mack  is  so  rehabilitated  by  his  engagement  to  Sidonie  De- 
vine,  and  the  enormous  rise  in  Brandy  Gulch  ?  Remember, 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  279 

he  has  his  side  of  the  story  to  tell,  and  half  of  society  and 
all  of  the  McBrides  will  believe  his  version." 

Arthur  Amberley  was  not  so  much  under  the  influence 
of  this  lady  as  he  had  once  been,  and  he  did  not  answer 
with  his  old  suavity. 

"  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  those  ashes  raked  open, 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  for  we  have  a  very  live  coal  in  them  for 
Hathorne  Mack." 

"  Hum !"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer  to  a  lady  near  her ;  "  Arthur 
Amberley  must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  money  in  Pascal 
Chadwick's  hands." 

Another  advocate  for  the  Western  marriage  was  the 
President  of  Charpentier  College.  He  and  his  wife  were 
delighted  to  stand  in  loco  parentum  to  their  dear  Rose, 
and  did  not  mind  the  inconvenience  of  the  journey  quite 
as  much  as  Mrs.  Carver  did. 

So  Eastman  Jones,  who  had  become  the  landlord  of  the 
Chadwick  homestead  for  the  time,  received  the  reward  of 
all  his  devotion  to  Rose  by  being  allowed  to  arrange  for 
her  marriage  to  another  man. 

He  and  Arthur  Amberley  stood  in  the  same  rather  try- 
ing attitude  of  chivalrous  and  unpaid  devotion,  without 
bearing  any  other  relationship  to  each  other.  But  the 
younger  man  found  his  reward  in  the  great  case  which  he 
was  unravelling,  and  in  the  many  curious  coincidences  which 
always  reveal  themselves  as  we  cut  transversely  into  the 
ideas,  schemes,  and  unfinished  theories  of  another  man's  life. 
It  seemed  to  him,  from  the  first  visit  of  Sir  Lytton  Leyces- 
ter,  that  Pascal  Chadwick  had  striven  to  intertwine  his  in- 
terests with  those  of  Rose.  Nothing  could  be  more  certain, 
singular,  marked,  and  curiously  joined  than  were  the  fort- 
unes of  the  two.  Together  their  interests  in  the  great 


280  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBS. 

silver-mine  ;  together  their  joint  ownership  of  lands,  stocks, 
herds,  and  all  that  Pascal  Chadwick  left;  together  they 
could  make  a  fight  against  Hathorne  Mack,  which  either 
alone  would  have  found  almost  impossible. 

Eastman  Jones  had  the  generosity  of  youth,  and  he 
wrote  all  this  to  Rose.  It  gave  the  last  added  leaf  to  float 
on  her  full  cup.  But  these  were  things  apart  from  all  that 
the  world  saw. 

The  world  found  Sir  Lytton  changed.  To  the  people 
who  had  known  the  gay  and  laughing  young  baronet  he 
was  more  silent  and  reserved,  and  a  graver  man ;  for  his 
doubts,  his  fears,  his  hard  experiences,  had  altered  and 
aged  him.  They  saw  that  with  Rose  alone  did  he  come  to 
his  old  cheerfulness.  His  caresses  were  few,  his  words  of 
endearment  carefully  repressed;  but  his  eyes  eloquently 
told  of  feelings  deeper  than  words — a  love  which,  starting 
in  the  sun,  had  been  rooted  in  adversity  and  trouble ;  feel- 
ings which  had  come  to  their  full  noble  growth  through  a 
long,  painful  probation.  There  was  a  silent  expression  of 
determination  and  trust  on  the  faces  of  both  these  young 
lovers  which  struck  all  observers.  There  was  no  longer 
a  passionate  fitfulness;  and  although  occasionally,  when 
Rose  appeared  in  a  white  morning  dress  and  a  moss-rose 
in  her  corsage,  there  would  be  an  expression  of  the  ortho- 
dox lover  rapture  on  his  face,  Sir  Lytton  controlled  him- 
self under  these  trying  circumstances,  and  behaved  like  the 
delicate,  reticent,  manly  Englishman  that  he  was. 

Those  were  precious  moments  when  Sir  Lytton  and  his 
beloved  could  steal  off  for  a  ramble  on  horseback,  or  a  walk 
in  the  soothing  shadow  of  the  woods.  The  little  dog  kept 
watch  and  ward  against  intruders  meantime. 

"  What  does  Mrs.  Carver  mean  by  insisting  upon  all 


A    TRAK8PLAWTED    ROSE.  981 

these  guests  ?"  asked  Sir  Lytton,  rather  crossly,  one  morn- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rose,  laughing.  "  She  always 
talks  about '  what  the  world  will  say.'  I  suppose  she  wishes 
to  show  them  that  I  am  not  beguiling  you  by  unholy  arts, 
or  marrying  you  against  your  own  consent.  She  wants 
them  all  to  think  that  you  are  a  'marvellously  proper 
man,'  and  I  the  'sweetest  lady-bird  that  ever  was  wooed 
and  won.' " 

Sir  Lytton  kissed  away  the  ripple  of  a  smile  which  had 
always  been  one  of  the  charms  of  a  certain  mouth,  and 
then  demanded,  in  good  terse  English,  "  who  cared  for  the 
opinion  of  the  world  ?" 

"Oh,  I  do,"  said  Rose.  "Just  imagine!  I  have  to 
please  all  your  sisters  and  your  lady  mother." 

Sir  Lytton  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  bright  picture 
which  his  beautiful  young  wife  would  make  in  that  long 
oaken  chamber  at  Tellisor  House.  He  thought  how  the 
high-born  dowagers  would  sit  in  the  oriel-window  and  gaze 
at  her,  and  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  pick  a  flaw  in 
voice,  accent,  figure,  face,  or  "  deportment." 

"  Rose,  dear,"  said  he,  "  I  think  you  have  lost  a  charm — 
you  are  grown  so  like  other  people.  The  tender,  tremu- 
lous, sensitive  loneliness,  the  unconscious  sweetness,  the 
blushing  awkwardness,  with  which  you  won  me  that  first 
evening,  are  all  passed  away.  Could  you  not  get  them 
back  again?" 

"Shall  I  pull  over  the  epergne  and  spill  the  claret  for 
you  again,  Sir  Lytton,  when 'I  am  introduced  at  Tellisor 
House  ?"  said  Rose. 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

Then  followed  some  "  blissful  brevities,"  and  Sir  Lytton 


282  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

fell  seven  fathoms  deeper  in  love ;  and  if  the  rich  red  flush 
on  the  cheek  of  the  transplanted  Rose  paled  or  deepened, 
he  breathed  a  prayer  that  it  might  ever  glow,  as  roses  always 
do,  the  brighter  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  own  England. 

Meantime  the  engagement  of  Hathorne  Mack  to  Sidonie 
Devine  was  the  theme  at  Newport.  The  diamonds  were 
splendid,  the  settlements  enormous.  The  family  said, 
"  Oh,  you  know  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  his 
having  attempted  to  cheat  Miss  Chadwick,  who  has  caught 
Sir  Lytton  Leycester  (I  hear  he  is  very  much  broken  down 
by  his  wounds,  by  the  way) — but  wait  till  you  hear  his 
story,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  Hathorne  Mack  was  still  the  "  important  factor  in 
the  development  of  the  West;"  he  was  the  owner  of  an 
immense  number  of  stocks.  Brandy  Gulch  had  risen  won- 
derfully ;  he  was  a  member  of  the  lower  house;  he  helped 
to  make  his  nation's  laws ;  he  was  a  "  rough  diamond ;"  he 
had  sterling  traits;  he  was,  to  some  minds,  still  the  coming 
decillionaire. 

Asmodeus  had  not  unroofed  that  house  where  Ethel 
Marjoribanks  had  knelt  and  wept  and  conquered;  it  had 
not  revealed  the  scene  in  the  clergyman's  little  room  at 
Harlem.  Decker  had  not  spoken ;  President  Williams  re- 
mained silent.  Why,  we  shall  see  later. 

Mrs.  Morella  had  heard  mmors ;  so  had  everybody. 
Who  can  follow  a  society  story?  There  are  too  many  of 
them  to  follow.  They  are  never  told  twice  alike,  and  they 
are  sure  to  be  wrong.  And  it  was  so  probable  that  the 
"Rose  Chadwick  faction  should  manufacture  a  set  of 
stories  which  would  be  disadvantageous  to  the  Sidonie 
Devine  faction." 

Ah,  it  had  got  round  to  that,  had  it  ?     How  curiously 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  283 

the  whirligig  of  fate  changes  its  spots !  No  wonder  that 
the  poet  sang, 

"Good-by,  proud  world;  I'm  going  home; 
Thou'rt  not  my  friend,  I  am  not  thine; 
Good-by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 
To  Grandeur,  with  his  wise  grimace ; 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 
To  supple  office,  low  and  high ; 
To  crowded  halls ;  to  court  and  street ; 
To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 
To  those  who  go  and  those  who  come : 
Good-by,  proud  world;  I'm  going  home" — 

when  he  listened  to  the  idle,  false,  and  foolish  commen- 
taries upon  character,  when  he  observed  the  illogical  and 
wretched  subterfuges  by  which  worldlings  seek  to  apolo- 
gize for  their  "  change  of  base." 

Hathorne  Mack  was  playing  a  bold  game,  and  for  the 
moment  boldness  won.  It  always  does.  Goethe  never 
said  a  wiser  thing  than  when  he  made  this  couplet: 

"What  you  can  do,  or  think  you  can,  begin  it: 
Boldness  hath  genius,  power,  and  magic  in  it. " 

The  fact  that  the  stylish  and  fashionable  Sidonie  Devine 
had  accepted  him  introduced  him  anew  to  the  innermost 
circle  of  exclusive  fashion.  Every  one  of  the  aristocratic 
relatives  put  their  scruples  in  their  pockets,  and  found 
Hathorne  Mack  "  charming."  Even  those  who  knew  more 
of  him  than  the  rest  of  the  world  were  silenced  by  his 
audacity.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  was  able  to  escape 
all  punishment,  all  exposure,  and  to  marry  this  fashionable 
girl,  and  to  enter  for  life  the  best  "  inner  circle"  ?  Other 
men  had  done  it  as  heavily  handicapped  as  he.  So  Arthur 
Amberley  well  remembered;  but,  after  a  careful  study  of 


284  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

his  own  duty  in  the  matter,  he  went  to  Sidonie's  nearest 
friend,  and  put  that  gentleman  in  possession  of  all  that  he 
knew.  All  that  he  gained  by  this  was  a  little  delay,  for 
Hathorne  Mack  had  anticipated  him,  and  was  ready  for  him. 

The  wedding  had  been  put  down  for  August,  but  it  was 
postponed  to  October  7.  And  it  so  happened  that  it  fell 
on  the  very  day  which,  after  much  arranging  and  circum- 
locution, had  been  fixed  upon  for  the  wedding  of  Rose  and 
Sir  Lytton.. 

Asmodeus  had  on  that  day  to  look  down  on  two  very 
different  scenes.  The  little  town  of  Chadwick's  Falls  was 
gay  with  the  unexpected  lustre  of  a  wedding.  The  great 
rambling  house  where  Pascal  Chadwick  had  lived  was 
buried  in  its  mass  of  fragrant  bushes,  vines,  and  tangled 
verdure.  Dogs  and  ponies,  carriages  and  horses,  dashed 
up  the  walks;  groups  of  gayly-dressed  New-Yorkers  and 
slouched-hatted  Westerners  stood  in  groups,  awaiting  the 
advent  of  the  bride. 

No  one  needed  a  prettier  subject  for  a  picture  than  that 
little  church  of  four  stone  walls  and  its  accessories.  It  did 
not  deserve  the  dispraise  which  Rose  had  given  it.  It  had 
no  pretensions  to  age  or  to  architectural  graces,  but  it  was 
mantled  with  vines,  and  as  it  stood  against  a  clear  blue 
sky,  with  the  snow-capped  mountains  for  its  distant  back- 
ground, it  was  not  unlovely.  An  endless  grand  prairie 
reached  out  for  hundreds  of  miles  before  it,  while  around 
its  near  neighborhood  crept  up  the  industries  and  the 
houses  of  the  little  settlement  which  Pascal  Chadwick  had 
made.  And  in  the  church  one  stained-glass  window, 
erected  to  his  memory  by  his  daughter,  told  the  world  that 
the  murdered  man  was  not  forgotten.  Its  varied  colors 
fell  upon  her  as  she  stood  at  the  altar  pledging  her  troth. 


A    TRANSPLANTBD    ROSE.  285 

Her  whole  delicately  rounded  figure  was  one  living,  breath- 
ing statue  of  joy  and  happiness,  although  the  eyes  were 
full  of  dew-drops. 

Arthur  Amberley  was  best  man.  The  President  gave 
her  away ;  the  faithful  Mrs.  Carver  and  her  friends  sat  and 
wept  in  true  maternal  fashion.  Jack  Long  and  his  wife 
had  come  on  to  the  wedding,  and  a  number  of  young 
American  ranckeros,  and  English  buffalo -hunters,  and  offi- 
cers of  the  army  and  their  wives,  helped  to  fill  the  scene. 

Sir  Lytton  was  the  model  English  bridegroom,  and  was 
married  with  a  severe  gravity,  which  fell  off  at  the  wed- 
ding breakfast. 

"It  is  a  wedding  in  a  garden,"  said  one  of  his  friends, 
as  they  looked  throxigh  the  rich  dark  green  of  the  rhodo- 
dendrons. 

"  But,  Lytton,  you  do  not  intend  to  bury  yourself  here, 
do  you  ?"  asked  another. 

"No.  Lady  Lytton  Leycester  has  never  seen  Europe; 
we  intend  to  leave  for  the  Continent  in  a  month,  and  next 
spring  will  see  us  in  England,"  said  the  bridegroom,  look- 
ing not  too  unhappy. 

And  then  came  the  rice  and  the  slipper,  and  the  four 
horses,  and  the  coachman  with  white  favors,  and  away 
drove  the  happy  pair,  out  into  the  unknown  land  of  matri' 
mony. 


XXXVIII. 

FAR,  far  away,  out  at  sea,  with  a  dagger  in  her  heart,  a 
wasted,  guilty,  and  bitter  memory  behind  her,  Ethel  Mar- 
joribanks  wept  alone  in  the  darkness. 
'      19 


286  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  dream,  a  bitter  experience,  a  dread- 
f  ul  fate.  She  had  had  little  else  in  her  poor  life,  this  woman 
of  many  gifts,  of  much  culture,  of  great  natural  cleverness. 
Those  who  believe  in  "  luck  "  would  have  found  much  to 
help  them  to  believe  in  the  story  of  this  woman.  Reality, 
hard  facts,  a  sad  following  of  evil  fortune,  a  worthless 
father,  a  broken-hearted  mother  who  died  young,  a  lover 
who  deceived — all  that  before  she  was  twenty.  Then  to 
win  the  hard  bread  of  a  daily  governess!  then  a  knowledge 
of  her  own  self-reliance,  quick  ability  to  decide  in  emer- 
gencies, a  certain  power  which  she  found  always  telling  in 
her  favor;  then  a  great  fascination,  for  she  was  pretty  in 
those  days — a  fascination  which  she  never  entirely  lost; 
then  the  "  sentirnentalism"  of  character  which  Rose  had  so 
justly  characterized — all  were  against  her. 

She  was  one  of  those  clever  women  who  are  only  not 
quite  clever  enough ;  one  of  those  wicked  women  who  are 
not  wicked  enough.  Something  good  in  her  came  always 
to  defeat  her.  Had  she  been  worse,  she  would  have  done 
better — for  herself. 

And  now  where  was  she  going?  A  bitter  feeling  of 
jealousy  told  her  that  Hathorne  Mack  wished  to  get  rid  of 
her ;  that  he  had  traded  on  her  fears. 

"Jealousy  is  a  passion  which  eagerly  seeks  that  which 
has  caused  us  to  suffer;"  she  went  over  in  her  mind  the 
thousand  things  which  in  her  hurry  and  fright  she  had 
overlooked,  and  which  now  convinced  her  that  she  was 
foolish  to  have  left  him. 

Her  past  would  not  bear  scrutiny,  that  she  knew,  but  as 
Hathorne  Mack's  wife  she  had  a  stronghold  which  she  ought 
not  to  have  relinquished.  All  the  answer  that  she  got  was 
that  melancholy  surge  against  the  ship's  side.  The  ocean, 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  287 

unsympathetic  and  cruel,  moaned  and  bore  her  on  towards 
far-distant  Australia.  Some  days  she  thought  she  should 
go  mad,  but  the  habit  of  self-control  was  strong  with  her. 
She  began  to  observe  her  fellow-passengers,  to  be  observed 
by  them,  and  to  exercise,  unwontedly,  some  of  her  old  fas- 
cination. 

"  It's  fine  weather,  miss,"  the  captain  would  say  to  her, 
as  she  raised  her  head  from  her  hands,  and  looked  out  on 
the  waves.  And  she  would  respond,  and,  all  perversely, 
smile  and  show  a  set  of  fine  teeth.  Then  the  mate  would 
come  along  and  speak  kindly  to  her,  and  ask  if  she  was 
getting  over  her  seasickness.  And  two  or  three  women 
and  their  little  children  drew  up  near  her,  and,  all  unknown 
to  themselves,  told  her  that  her  old  power  had  not  left  her 
— she  was  still  attractive. 

Perhaps  these  more  reasonable  and  comforting  thoughts 
might  have,  in  time,  won  her  from  herself.  Perhaps,  had 
she  been  allowed  to  go  on  with  that  homely  company  to 
a  new  land,  Ethel  Marjoribanks  might  have  lived  a  good 
and  useful  life — might  have  been  won  to  another  and  an 
honorable  future.  Who  knows  ? 

But  her  luck  was  ever  against  her.  One  afternoon  she 
noticed  that  the  mate,  Mr.  Terry,  who  was  a  broad-faced, 
honest,  calm  personage,  looked  at  her  with  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  confidence  and  alarm.  As  he  passed  her  he 
said,  "  We  are  to  have  a  storm :  can  you  keep  the  women 
and  children  quiet?" 

"  I  will  try,"  said  she,  and  she  looked  her  gratitude  that 
he  should  expect  it  of  her. 

A  gale  came  up,  and  raged  all  day  and  night.  The  wind 
howled,  the  skies  were  leaden,  the  sea  looked  like  pea- 
soup,  the  billows  ran  mountains.  There  was  a  deep,  hollow 


288  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

roar,  and  all  the  timbers  creaked.  Everything  fell,  every- 
thing  was  broken.  Ethel  found  herself  kneeling  on  the 
cabin  floor  clasping  a  child  to  her  breast.  It  was  a  little 
girl  who  had  played  with  the  tassels  of  her  cloak — a  pretty 
child,  whose  mother  was  shrieking  in  another  part  of  the 
ship.  Then  came  a  darkness — a  darkness  so  pitchy  that 
she  could  not  see  the  golden  gleam  of  the  child's  hair ; 
then  a  mighty  bang  and  blow  ;  then  a  disjointed  murmur, 
hurrying  men,  weeping  women,  angry  oaths,  a  great  rush 
of  water,  a  surging  and  uncertain  motion,  a  groaning, 
splitting,  creaking,  rattling  noise — something  struck  her, 
and  she  lost  consciousness. 

When  she  regained  it  she  was  floating  on  the  water,  still 
holding  the  child  in  her  arms.  She  was  so  utterly  bewil- 
dered that  she  hardly  realized  that  a  strong  arm  was  hold- 
ing her  up,  that  the  voice  of  Terry  was  in  her  ears,  urging 
her  to  try  to  live,  to  keep  quiet,  and  to  catch  at  a  spar  if 
she  could.  Cold  and  terrible  was  the  water,  and  to  the 
miserable  woman  life  then  looked  warm  and  sweet  and  de- 
sirable. What  would  she  not  give  for  one  hour  of  that 
dreadful  life  which  had  but  lately  seemed  so  unendurable  ! 
She  never  knew  what  happened,  how  Terry  got  her  and  the 
child  into  a  boat,  where  she  found  two  men  and  the  captain. 

The  sea  and  the  wind  went  on  in  their  mutual  commo- 
tion. Neither  relaxed  a  moment.  The  survivors  in  the 
boat  saw  their  great  ship  go  down ;  they  felt  the  faint, 
sickly  sense  of  despair  as  they  heard  groans  and  shrieks 
above  the  gale ;  they  saw  spars  and  timbers  and  pieces  of 
furniture  from  the  ship  go  by  them,  and  then  they  were 
swept  far  away,  a  waif  on  the  bosom  of  the  great  deep. 

And  still  she  held  the  child  close  to  her  breast — a  little 
alien  child,  whose  name  she  did  not  even  know.  Then 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  289 

came  the  reaction — stillness,  calm,  and  corresponding  faint- 
ness,  hunger,  and  thirst.  The  men  had  each  a  flask  of 
spirits ;  Terry  put  his  to  her  lips.  The  cordial  revived  her ; 
and  a  better  cordial,  the  child — the  little  child — put  its 
still  warm  hand  up  to  her  cheek. 

A  sense  of  terror  overcame  her.  "  Why  was  I  saved, 
and  this  child's  mother  lost  ?"  said  she. 

"  Perhaps  God  has  need  of  you,"  said  Terry,  raising  his 
bruised  tarpaulin  from  his  head. 

"  I,  who  asked  for  death — who  longed  for  it !"  said  the 
poor  woman. 

"  You  must  live — God  wills  it ;  live  for  the  child,"  said 
Terry. 

The  horrors  of  shipwreck  did  not  haunt  these  people 
long.  They  were  picked  up  by  a  homeward-bound  vessel 
and  taken  to  New  York.  Before  they  reached  that  port 
every  man  was  Ethel  Marjoribanks's  slave.  She  had  that 
curious  quality,  she  could  bear  the  worst  discomforts  with 
courage.  She  began  to  encourage  the  others,  before  there 
even  was  need  of  it. 

She  saw  Terry  looking  at  her  with  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
his  great  honest  eyes  calmly  reading  her  face ;  she  knew 
that  she  could  trust  him.  "When  they  were  on  the  home- 
ward voyage,  she  told  him  enough  to  insure  his  help  and 
his  care.  She  told  him  that  she  was  a  hunted  creature, 
and  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  worthless  husband. 

The  honest  sailor  gave  a  sigh.  "  Do  you  know,  marm, 
the  captain  said  I  was  making  a  fool  of  myself  about  you. 
Well,  perhaps  I  was ;  but  if  you  are  a  married  woman,  and 
in  trouble,  I'll  help  you.'* 

And  he  did.  He  helped  her  to  secrecy,  to  quiet,  to  a 
respectable  lodging,  where  she  passed  for  the  mother  of 


290  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

the  child.  Who  read  or  cared  or  knew  of  the  identity  of 
the  poor  creatures  who  were  saved  from  the  wreck  of  that 
Australian  ship  ?  Certainly  not  Hathorne  Mack. 

She  needed  money,  she  must  have  it ;  poor  Terry  could 
not  furnish  her  with  that.  She  had  one  means  of  getting 
it.  Around  her  neck,  secured  by  a  strong  chain,  hung  the 
diamond  ring  with  which  Hathorne  Mack  had  once  sought 
to  affiance  Rose — the  ring  which  had  been  thrown  against 
the  looking-glass,  to  the  unending  fear  and  trembling  of 
poor  Jean  Philippeau.  She  must  sell  that,  and  to  do  it 
properly  she  must  make  herself  look  respectable.  She 
would  then  find  out  what  Hathorne  Mack  was  doing. 

Her  landlady  lent  her  some  modest,  decent  clothes,  in 
which  she  dressed  herself  before  starting  for  the  grand 
counter  of  a  fashionable  jeweller.  She  knew  but  too  well 
how  dangerous  it  was  to  go  to  any  other.  A  reduced  lady 
can  take  her  diamonds  to  Tiffany  to  sell.  It  is  not  sus- 
picious ;  it  is  often  done.  But  to  go  to  a  pawnbroker  or 
an  inferior  house — Rebecca  Ethel  Marjoribanks  knew  too 
much  for  that.  She  was  skilled  in  the  arts  of  disguise,  as 
we  have  seen ;  she  could  "  make  up  "  for  any  part ;  even 
her  landlady  did  not  know  the  quiet,  elegant,  slender  lady, 
who  left  her  house  for  a  momentous  bit  of  shopping. 

It  was  a  large,  fine  diamond,  and  she  must  make  up  a 
good  story,  which  she  did.  While  she  was  bargaining,  and 
before  the  sale  was  completed,  a  party  of  ladies  came  in  to 
buy  wedding  presents. 

"  I  must  give  Sidonie  something  handsome,"  said  Mrs. 
Morella.  "  I  suppose  a  diamond  ring  will  be  the  best. 
Would  you  give  that  ?  I  am  tired  of  silver." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  "  a  ring  is  always  a  judicious 
present." 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  291 

And  they  looked  and  admired.  "  Mrs.  Hathorne  Mack 
must  have  something  handsome,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

"  Oh  yes,  very  handsome.  They  say  that  he  has  given 
such  splendid  black  pearls." 

"  When  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?"  asked  one  of  the  ladies. 

"  The  7th  of  October,"  said  Mrs.  Morella. 

The  quiet  lady  moved  off,  motioning  to  the  shop-keeper. 
He  waited  upon  her  at  a  different  counter. 

"  Offer  this  jewel  to  them  at  a  price  so  low  that  they 
will  be  tempted  to  buy  it.  Tell  them  it  is  from  the  box 
of  a  countess  who  must  sell  her  jewels,"  said  she.  Before 
she  left  the  shop  the  transfer  was  made,  and  the  money 
was  in  her  pocket — vengeance  and  hatred  and  rage  in  her 
heart ;  and  the  ring  was  on  its  way  to  Sidonie  Devine. 

The  arrangements  for  the  wedding  were  all  made,  and 
the  Hon.  Hathorne  Mack  was  going  round  in  his  coup6  to 
call  on  his  fiancee.  She  was  in  high  spirits,  and  showed 
him  the  wedding  presents. 

"  They  are  very  handsome — first  class,"  said  Hathorne 
Mack,  weighting  the  silver  soup-tureen. 

"  And  see  how  generous  Mrs.  Morella  has  been — look  at 
this  superb  diamond  ring  !  It  is  one  a  Polish  countess 
sold  at  the  jeweller's  only  the  other  day,  and  she  bought 
it  for  me.  See  what  a  peculiar  blue  and  gold  setting — 
and  what  a  superb  stone  !" 

A  sudden,  violent  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  a  black 
darkness  over  everything,  and  the  Hon.  Hathorne  Mack 
clutched  at  a  chair.  He  thought  that  accursed  ring  was 
on  its  way  to  Australia.  How  well  he  knew  it !  How  he, 
in  his  passionate  love  for  Rose,  had  had  her  initials  care- 
fully and  minutely  enamelled  in  blue  on  gold — there  they 
stood  out,  "  R.  C.,"  looking  him  full  in  the  face ! 


C92  A    TRANSPLANTED    EOIK. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this — where  did  it  come  from  f* 
said  he,  wildly. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Sidonie,  in  an  alarmed  voice. 

"  Give  it  to  me — I  must  find  out  about  it." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Mack,  how  very  strangely  you  behave  !" 
said  she. 

The  entrance  of  a  third  person  restored  Hathorne  Mack 
to  a  temporary  calmness,  and  his  bride  was  too  prudent  to 
carry  on  the  discussion. 

There  were  papers  to  sign,  and  the  various  arrangements 
for  the  wedding.  Best  men  and  lesser  men  came  in.  All 
was  busy  confusion,  and  Sidonie,  after  one  or  two  anxious 
looks  towards  her  lover,  to  see  if  he  really  were  going  off  in 
an  apoplectic  fit,  calmed  down  and  became  the  busy  bride 
again. 

She  was  to  be  married  at  the  most  fashionable  church 
in  New  York ;  it  would  be  crowded  to  repletion.  She 
"  should  not  see  him  again  until  they  met  at  the  altar," 
she  said  playfully,  as  she  kissed  his  purple  cheek. 

"  Let  me  take  the  ring,"  said  he,  hoarsely. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  keep  it ;"  and  she  did.  As  she 
put  it  on,  a  thrill  ran  up  her  finger.  "  I  wonder  what  is 
the  matter  with  it,"  said  Sidonie. 


XXXIX. 

THK  Metropolitan  Church  had  never  held  a  more  fash- 
ionable, gay  audience.  Asmodeus,  who  had  just  been 
looking  at  Rose  Chadwick's  simple,  pretty  wedding  in 
the  little  stone  church  with  its  background  of  snow  moun- 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  298 

tains,  thought  with  one  of  his  habitual  sneers  that  there 
was  more  fashion  at  Sidonie's,  after  all. 

The  bride,  her  attendant  vestals,  and  the  ushers  were  all 
there.  The  organ  played  the  Wedding  March,  a  stout 
figure  appeared  near  the  rail  of  the  chancel,  and  Dicky 
Smallweed  rushed  into  the  waiting-room  to  tell  the  bridal 
cortege  that  it  was  time  to  move  on. 

Ten  bridemaids,  all  with  deferent-colored  rosebud  bou- 
quets, followed  the  six  ushers.  Every  one  rose  to  look  at 
the  bride,  as  in  magnificent  array  she  marched  up,  on  her 
father's  arm,  to  the  altar. 

The  clergyman  descended  to  greet  her.  But  where  was 
the  bridegroom  ?  She  cast  one  hurried  look  to  right  and 
left;  so  did  the  best  man,  who  retreated  to  the  vestry  to 
find  his  friend.  Alas,  not  there ! 

"He  has  fallen  in  a  fit,"  whispered  Sidonie  to  her 
father. 

Every  one  rose,  sat  down,  trembled,  and  felt  the  cold 
perspiration  start  to  the  brow. 

There  was  no  Hathorne  Mack.  The  stout  figure  who 
had  seemed  to  be  that  honorable  gentleman  was  the  sexton, 
who  bore  so  strong  a  resemblance  to  him  that  Dicky  had 
been  deceived. 

They  waited  an  eternity.  It  was  five  minutes  only,  but 
it  seemed  years.  And  then  the  bride  fainted,  or  seemed 
to  faint,  under  the  pressure  of  the  greatest  insult  which 
can  be  put  upon  a  woman.  She  was  carried  into  the  ves- 
try-room, her  friends  following  her.  The  great  crowd 
dispersed,  every  one  with  a  theory.  The  fear  that  an 
accident  had  occurred  was  the  favorite  one,  as  they  whis- 
pered behind  their  hands. 

And,  indeed,  Hathorne  Mack  was  for  once  guiltless;  for 


294  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBS. 

he  lay,  a  lifeless  mass  of  human  nothingness,  floating  on 
the  tide,  as  it  surged  to  and  fro  in  the  North  River. 

He  could  not  come,  he  could  keep  no  more  engage- 
ments; he  had  stepped  off  in  the  darkness  into  that  fast- 
running  current,  hiding  disgrace  and  exposure  in  the  flood 
which  tells  no  tales. 

It  was  a  nine  days'  wonder  to  the  world,  but  to  Decker  it 
was  but  the  consummation  of  the  plot  which  he  had  been 
weaving,  with  the  addition  of  one  piece  of  testimony  which 
he  had  not  expected — that  of  Ethel's  reappearance. 

When  Hathorne  Mack  left  Sidonie,  after  the  episode  of 
the  ring,  he  had  gone  to  his  own  rooms — to  be  confronted 
by  the  sight  of  his  wife.  Decker  was  there,  and  with  him 
the  clergyman  of  Harlem,  with  the  dropped  handkerchief 
marked  R.  E.  M. 

Another  man  was  there — Herzog,  who  knew  all  about  the 
disappearance  of  Pascal  Chad  wick.  At  the  sight  of  this 
man  Hathorne  Mack  grew  pale.  Decker  held  in  his  hand 
the  papers  which  had  been  found  on  the  dead  body  of  his 
victim.  One  glance  sufficed. 

"  A  pleasant  little  family  party,"  said  the  Hon.  Hathorne 
Mack,  as  he  looked  around  him,  and  his  old  sneer  settled 
on  his  mouth.  They  did  not  watch  him  very  closely  ;  per- 
haps they  did  not  care  where  he  went,  as  he  left  his  rooms 
at  midnight.  It  was  not  their  business  to  send  round  to 
the  fashionable  bride  who  was  to  await  him  at  the  altar. 
Indeed,  Decker  spent  no  more  time  on  him,  but  went  off  to 
hunt  up  another  case,  and  Herzog  had  vanished  into  dark- 
ness too.  Only  one  faithful  woman  watched  and  waited — 
in  her  humble  hiding-place — thinking,  as  she  curled  the 
golden  hair  of  the  rescued  child  over  her  fingers,  that  per- 
haps he  might  come  to  her  again  for  comfort  and  for 


A  TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  295 

succor.  And  it  was  only  from  the  paper  which  she  bought 
in  the  street  that  she  knew  what  had  become  of  him — he 
had  not  even  thought  of  her. 

Taking  one  poor  little  hand  in  hers,  Ethel  Marjoribanks, 
too,  vanished  into  darkness.  Perhaps  God  had  sent  her  an 
angel  unawares  in  this  child  whom  she  had  saved  from  the 
deep  sea,  who  should  lead  her  out  of  the  mesh  of  a  guilty 
life. 

Sidonie  Devine  had  been  warned — Arthur  Amberley  had 
seen  to  that.  But,  with  the  mingled  audacity  and  self- 
assertion  of  her  character,  she  had  chosen  to  act  on  her 
own  wisdom.  She  believed,  for  she  had  seen  it  done  be- 
fore, that  an  old  family,  a  large  family,  a  family  with  a 
recognized  name,  could  carry  an  illiterate,  a  vulgar,  a  low- 
born man  along,  if  he  had  money.  Hathorne  Mack  had 
told  her  his  own  story  his  own  way,  no  doubt,  and  that 
she  had  chosen  to  believe. 

Now  that  he  was  dead,  no  concealment  was  either  neces- 
sary or  possible ;  and  a  book  was  opened  and  read,  in 
which  many  living  characters  figured,  who  did  not  at  all 
relish  the  expose.  Therefore  Sidonie  Devine  received  very 
little  or  no  sympathy — she  did  not  ask  it. 

Meantime  Sir  Lytton  took  his  fair  bride  to  foreign  parts. 
She  had  lived  a  long  life  in  her  twenty-one  years;  her 
mind  had  come  in  contact  with  much  that  ripens  and  im- 
proves ;  it  was  a  mind,  too,  of  no  common  order.  No 
English  girl  of  her  age  and  position  could  have  had  the  ex- 
perience she  had  had — nor  would  any  "parent  or  guard- 
ian" wish  to  expose  an  innocent  heart  to  the  burden  of 
grief,  sorrow,  suffering,  and  hope  deferred  which  had  been 
the  portion  of  Rose ;  but  it  had  ripened  without  withering 
her. 


296  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROBK. 

"She  is  certainly  very  different  from  other  people," 
thought  Sir  Lytton,  who  tried  occasionally  to  look  at  her 
with  other  than  a  lover-husband's  eye. 

He  thought,  perhaps,  that  at  home  they  would  find  her 
too  quick,  too  independent,  too  vehement;  perhaps  in  Eng- 
land she  would  not  seem  so  gracious:  unconsciously  he 
dreaded  his  mother's  criticism.  He  lingered  as  long  as  he 
could  in  the  pleasant  business  of  showing  Europe  to  his 
young  wife. 

And  she  wished  that  it  could  last  forever,  this  wandering 
from  land  to  land,  and  this  dream  of  fair  cities ;  this  f  ol- 
lowing-up  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Portia  and  Viola.  Her 
old  days  at  Chadwick's  Falls,  her  dreams  over  her  books, 
her  lonely  long  hours  with  Shakespeare,  were  all  coming  to 
pass.  She  thought  how  she  had  lived  there,  perfectly  un- 
expectant,  unaware  of  the  net  which  circumstance,  past, 
present,  and  to  come,  was  weaving  about  her.  But  her 
father,  who  had  seemed  so  absent,  so  queer,  so  neglectful, 
had  been  working  for  her,  and  had  been  thinking — oh,  90 
tenderly  ! — of  the  future  of  his  little  girl ! 

And  with  the  faithful  eyes  of  a  tender  husband  Sir 
Lytton  watched  his  young  wife,  and  strove  to  save  her 
from  all  shock  and  sorrow.  He  hoped,  above  all  things, 
that  she  would  not  meet  Marie  Philippeau  or  Jean  Pierre, 
or  in  any  way  be  annoyed  and  troubled  by  the  recurrent 
trials  of  the  past.  So  far  as  he  could  temper  or  humanize 
the  bitter  wind  which  must  blow  on  everybody,  he  deter- 
mined to  do  it.  He  would  be  the  second  Providence  to 
this  woman  to  whom  he  had  given  his  name.  She  had 
shown  sometimes,  by  a  word  spoken  in  sleep,  that  months 
of  hard  trouble,  fear,  and  shame,  and  sorrow  had  passed 
over  her  1  They  should  not  come  again.  And  one  nama 


A   TRANSPLANTED    KO8E.  297 

she  could  not  speak  without  tears — it  was  that  of  littla 
Pierre. 

Sir  Lytton  heard  that  Marie  Philippeau  and  Jack  Town- 
ley  had  been  seen  at  Baden,  at  Nice,  at  Trouville,  at  Monaco. 
Both  had  boldly  entered  that  half -world  which  accepts 
such  a  lawless  couple.  Marie's  beauty  was  highly  extolled, 
and  the  gay  world  of  the  gamblers  greeted  her  with  loud 
acclamations.  But  of  such  a  couple  as  this  there  was  al- 
ways a  warning  note,  and  Sir  Lytton  drew  his  young  wife 
away  from  scenes  which  had  no  temptation  for  either  of 
them. 

Together  they  wandered  down  into  the  beautiful  scenery 
about  Orleans,  together  they  went  to  see  the  feudal  chateaux 
of  France ;  together  they  traced  Diana  de  Poitiers  at  Che- 
nonceaux,  and  read  up  the  legends  of  Blois  and  Amboise ; 
then  they  wandered  into  rural  France,  and  saw  the  spring 
come  on  in  soft  tender  green.  They  went  up  Philip  Ham- 
erton's  "  unknown  river,"  and  watched  the  sprightly  water 
gleam  and  caught  the  tone  of  the  wavelets.  They  sketched 
together,  and  put  in  here  a  stunted  willow,  there  a  droop- 
ing birch,  then  "  tufted  bights  of  bottom  growth,"  and  the 
dank  green  verdure  of  a  pool  with  lilies  in  it.  And  then 
they  would  look  at  each  other  and  sketch  in  familiar  feat- 
ures, and  then  laugh  at  their  own  folly. 

What  is  amenable  to  foresight  ?  How  could  Sir  Lytton 
have  foreseen  what  was  to  come  to  pass  amid  this  sylvan 
paradise  ?  Looking  over  the  blue  river,  yet  unvexed  by 
storm  or  turbulence,  over  green  pastures  filled  with  cattle, 
over  the  picturesque  peasantry,  he  felt  that  Rose  was  safe 
from  even  a  regret,  and  so  one  day  he  told  her  that  he 
must  leave  her  for  a  day  or  two,  to  attend  to  some  busi- 
ness which  his  prolonged  absence  had  caused  to  accumulate. 


298  A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

It  was  their  first  separation,  and  they  looted  forward  to 
it  with  almost  tragic  solemnity,  and  then  laughed  again  at 
themselves. 

"  Ob,  Lytton !"  said  Rose, "  with  my  novels  and  guide- 
books, and  my  embroidery,  and  with  Barbe,  my  maid,  I 
shall  be  quite  happy,  and  not  know  that  you  are  gone — 
but  do  come  back  soon !" 

"  Don't  walk  too  far,  dear,"  said  Sir  Lytton.  "  Leave 
the  mountain-walk  until  I  return." 

And  so  with  tender  leave-takings  the  young  couple  part- 
ed for  two  days. 

Barbe,  who  was  to  the  manner  born,  was  an  excellent 
cicerone  for  the  short  expeditions  which  Rose  chose  to 
take  around  the  little  hamlet  where  they  were  spending 
the  week.  Rose,  a  true  daughter  of  the  country,  loved 
the  freedom,  the  solitude,  and  the  picturesque  novelty  of 
the  whole  thing. 

It  was  one  of  Fate's  sordid  arrangements  that  she  should 
happen  to  wander  into  the  little  cemetery  one  afternoon 
alone.  She  looked  at  the  crosses,  at  the  yellow  and  black 
wreaths  of  immortelles,  and  read  the  inscriptions,  as  the 
young  even  read  them,  with  a  sort  of  poetic  pleasure. 
When  we  are  gay  and  happy,  we  love  to  toy  with  grief. 

As  she  passed  down  a  little  valley  she  saw  a  grave  cov- 
ered with  violets,  and  at  the  foot  of  it  lay  a  man  stretched 
at  full  length,  as  if  asleep — she  advanced  and  read, 

CI   GIT 

PIERRE  PHILIPPEAU. 

Before  she  could  finish  the  long  inscription,  the  man  had 
sprung  to  his  feet.  He  turned  upon  her  the  wildest,  most 
awful  face  that  she  had  ever  seen.  For  a  moment  he  gazed 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  299 

at  her  without  a  word,  and  she  looked  at  him.  Her  heart 
was  beating  so  loud  that  she  could  hear  it,  yet  she  did  not 
stir.  Pale,  with  hair  white,  standing  up  all  over  his  head, 
Jean  Pierre  Philippeau  gazed  at  her  with  the  wild  glare  of 
a  maniac ;  then  a  softer  expression  came  into  his  face. 

"  It  is  ze  Mees  Rose,  dear  child,  come  for  poor  leetle 
Pierre  !  I  give  him  leetle  dog,  leetle  cat,  everyting,  but 
he  could  not  stay  !  Oh,  Mees  Rose !  he  cry  for  you,  for 
ze  leetle  maman.  No,  I  never  speak  her  name  again  !  Oh, 
Mees  Rose  !  why  you  break  ze  looking  -  glass  ?  it  mean 
death — it  mean  death  to  mon  Pierre !" 

Rose  shook  in  every  limb,  but  she  was  inspired  to  do 
the  best  thing. 

"  Pierre  dead  !  my  Pierre  ?"  said  she,  sobbing,  and  she 
knelt  on  the  sod,  and  clasped  the  cross  in  her  arms. 

"  That  is  good.  You  weep,  Mees  Rose.  I  cannot  weep ! 
My  eyes  burn.  I  see  ze  little  boy  cry  all  time, '  Papa,  give 
me  water,  give  me  cool,  give  me  ze  food.'  I  see  him 
die  of  fever,  here  in  my  own  town,  where  I  bring  him 
for  ze  fresh  air,  when  zat  black-hearted  Jaques  Town- 
ley— ah  !" 

And  poor  Jean  Philippeau  sank  on  the  ground,  foaming 
at  the  mouth.  The  touch  of  that  cross,  the  prayer  she  had 
uttered,  the  memory  of  the  child  she  had  loved,  had  given 
Rose  strength  and  power  to  speak.  She  went  to  the  little 
brook  near  the  cemetery,  and  filled  her  hat  with  fresh 
water ;  bringing  it  back,  she  knelt  by  her  poor  old  friend, 
and  bathed  his  head  with  her  wet  handkerchief,  and  talked 
to  him  in  sweet,  tender  voice. 

"  Look  up,"  said  she,  "  look  up  at  that  sky.  Pierre 
is  there  watching  us ;  pray  to  God  to  comfort  you  and 
to  sustain  you.  No  mortal  man  can  keep  his  child  from 


300  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

dying — look  at  these  other  graves !  Pierre  was  only  lent 
to  us,  and  we  can  only  weep  and  pray." 

"  Ah,  ze  poor  Mees  Rose !  it  was  always  a  kind  leetle 
heart,"  said  poor  Jean  Pierre.  "  I  ml  pray  —  vil  you 
pray  ?" 

And  together,  kneeling  on  that  violet  sod,  the  two,  who 
had  loved  Pierre  so  well,  prayed  that  they  might  in  some 
better  world  see  his  face  once  more. 


XL. 

IT  was  not  strange  that,  when  Sir  Lytton  came  back,  he 
should  have  given  Barbe  a  scolding  for  letting  her  young 
mistress  wander  off  into  the  graveyard. 

Rose,  although  not  "  born  to  the  noble  privilege  of 
weariness,"  was  easily  shaken,  and  the  interview  with  poor 
Jean  Pierre  had  given  her  a  terrible  shock.  She  lay  on 
her  sofa,  quite  unable  and  unwilling  to  rise. 

"  Take  me  home,  dear,"  she  said,  finally,  amid  her  sobs ; 
"  take  me  to  our  quiet,  healthy  English  home.  I  shall  get 
strong  there." 

Perhaps  it  was  well  for  all  parties  that  the  young  Ameri- 
can wife  reached  her  English  home  a  somewhat  more  gen- 
tle and  dependent  being  than  was  her  nature,  needing  care, 
and  deeply  needing  the  loving  devotion  of  the  most  chival- 
rous of  men. 

Lady  Leycester  was  propitiated.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  strong-minded  or  the  pert  American  manner  in  this 
grateful  girl,  who  responded  to  the  courtly  morning  ques- 
tion of  her  mother-in-law,  "  /  hope  you  are  better  ?"  with 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  301 

that  smile  and  dewy  kiss  which  had  once  almost  reached 
the  worldly  heart  of  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

The  sisters,  too,  large  women,  with  good,  resolute,  well- 
marked  features,  and  long  teeth  (they  were  plain  replicas 
of  their  handsome  brother),  with  lady-like  voices,  and  the 
most  delicious  pronunciation  and  accent,  were  unexpectedly 
agreeable  to  Hose.  She  wished  that  she  felt  as  strong  as 
they  looked.  They  were  soon  friends,  talking  of  their 
dogs  and  horses. 

But  Rose  had  brought  home  a  fever  from  the  pretty 
little  French  valley,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
walked  through  her  own  house  with  the  alert  step  of  its 
mistress. 

She  came  to  look  at  the  beautiful  views  with  the  eyes 
of  a  convalescent,  finally,  and  by  that  time  they  all  loved 
her,  these  thoroughbred  English  women ;  they  had  made 
her  part  and  parcel  of  themselves. 

With  her  husband's  arm  around  her  she  stood  on  the 
balcony,  looking  over  towards  the  masses  of  green  beyond 
the  Moorland  Height.  She  saw  the  leafy  elms  spread  a 
carpet  of  thick  shadow  over  the  lawn ;  the  "  roses  red " 
mounted,  in  emulation  with  a  honeysuckle,  up  to  the  very 
stone  balustrade  on  which  she  leaned.  It  was  all  hers — 
hers  to  live  with,  enjoy,  and  adorn. 

Sir  Lytton  held  her  close  to  his  heart.  Her  illness  had 
been  a  disappointment  to  him,  for  he  was  full  of  all  sorts 
of  feudal  intentions  of  breakfasting  with  the  tenantry,  and 
flower-bedecked  arches,  and  the  pride  of  showing  off  his 
beautiful  young  wife,  in  all  the  glory  of  the  early  days  of 
marriage. 

He  felt  that  her  entrance  on  her  new  home  had  been  so 
sad  that  it  would  always  bring  a  home-sick  feeling  to  her. 

20 


302  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

But  it  was  bis  exquisite  happiness  to  see  her  soon  riding  at 
his  side,  to  find  that  she  could  walk,  even  with  his  sisters, 
and  to  hear  her  raptures  over  the  lordly  pheasant  trooping 
through  the  grass,  and  to  behold  how  pleased  she  was  with 
the  rural  beauty  of  England,  even  to  the  flaunting  wild 
poppy  which  filled  the  fields.  Tellisor  House  struck  her 
as  the  most  beautiful  thing  she  had  ever  seen,  as  indeed  it 
was.  She  often  scolded  Sir  Lytton,  in  good  set  terms, 
that  he  had  permitted  her  to  have  her  own  way,  not  in- 
sisting on  her  being  married  in  that  "  lovely,  tumble-down 
gray  chapel,"  with  its  brasses  in  the  floor,  memorials  of 
the  old  Crusaders !  So  much  for  the  fairness  of  woman  ! 
Shortly  after  all  these  romantic  interludes,  however,  came 
the  true  girlish,  womanly,  foolish  desire  to  go  up  to  Lon- 
don to  the  gayeties  of  the  season,  and  to  see  Harriet. 

Just  to  think,  Harriet,  her  dear,  best  friend,  was  in  Lon- 
don, and  the  lawn-tennis,  the  archery,  the  riding  must  give 
place  for  a  time  to  theatricals,  balls,  presentations  at  Court, 
and  all  the  dinners  of  all  London  ! 

Rose  had  a  toilet  from  Worth  in  some  of  those  un- 
opened trunks  which  now  began  to  be  remembered,  and 
Sir  Lytton  had  given  her  his  famous  family  diamonds, 
which  became  her  admirably. 

It  was  well  for  Rose  that  her  love  for  Sir  Lytton,  and 
his  for  her,  had  been  revealed  to  her  with  a  sharp  distinct- 
ness by  their  mutual  trials,  for  she  now  saw  him  under 
circumstances  which  might  have  made  her  feel  a  certain 
humility  and  a  consciousness  of  her  own  shortcomings. 
But  he  believed  in  her  so  intensely,  loved  her  so  devotedly, 
that  she  was  never  to  experience  that  recoil.  He  was 
proud  of  her,  too ;  she  was  glad  to  see  that. 

"Well,  mamma,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  he  asked 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  303 

of  Lady  Leycester,  as  Rose  stood  dressed  for  her  first  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Perfect,  my  son,  perfect.  I  would  not  have  her 
changed  in  a  single  particular." 

Harriet  had  grown  handsomer  for  being  married,  Rose 
thought ;  or  else  beauty  did  not  seem  to  be  so  important 
in  London  as  it  was  in  New  York. 

Harriet's  quiet  manner,  her  good  sense,  her  lady-like 
breeding,  all  told  in  London.  She  was  delightfully  happy 
in  her  quiet  way,  and  charmed  to  see  Rose.  She  was  of 
infinite  service  to  her,  in  advising  and  arranging  the  deli- 
cate shades  of  etiquette  required  by  her  own  and  Sir  Lyt- 
ton's  position.  In  a  society  so  accurately  defined  as  that  of 
England  these  things  are  more  easily  learned  than  with  us. 

"I  shall  never  learn  when  to  say  'your  Grace'  and  'my 
Lord,'  etc.,"  said  Rose,  with  a  little  of  her  old  confidence 
in  Harriet. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will ;  and  if  you  make  mistakes  they  will 
like  your  piquancy,"  said  Harriet. 

"  Lytton  will  never  tell  me  what  to  do ;  he  is  so  atro- 
ciously pleased  when  I  make  a  blunder!"  said  Rose  to 
Harriet. 

And  so  our  heroine  danced  and  smiled  and  dined 
through  her  first  London  season  with  an  ever-increasing 
success.  And  she  sang,  too,  at  the  grand  Musicale  of  the 
Duchess  of  No-Castle,  and  her  voice  had  the  freshness  and 
clearness  which  only  very  young  voices  have.  They  were 
surprised  to  hear  how  well  she  could  sing,  and  the  Misses 
Leycester  remembered  poor  Rebecca  Ethel.  And  all  her 
dresses  were  commended — those  latest  Paris  fashions — as 
the  tall  and  comely  figure  and  graceful  mien  set  them  off, 

"  Oh,  Harriet !  do  you  remember  the  brilliant  brocade 


304  A    TRANSPLANTED    BOSK. 

at  Mrs.  Mortimer's  ?"  said  Rose,  as  she  looked  at  herself, 
in  a  gray  silk  with  gray  bonnet  and  plume,  and  long  black 
gloves,  one  rose  alone  giving  her  a  bit  of  color. 

"Yes,  you  looked  like  a  beautiful  paroquet  in  that, 
Rose,"  said  Harriet. 

"  Clothes  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  one's  happiness," 
said  Rose,  thinking  of  the  agony  of  that  evening. 

"  What  an  ignoble  sentiment !"  said  Sir  Lytton,  coming 
in  at  the  close  of  this  council  of  war. 

It  was  amid  ices  and  sandwiches  and  claret-cup,  at  a 
garden-party,  that  Rose  came  unexpectedly  upon  an  old 
friend. 

It  was  Jack  Townley,  with  handsome  face,  bold  eyes, 
and  confident  air,  who,  hand  and  glove  with  the  young 
swells  about  him,  touched  his  hat  to  the  young  beauty, 
the  toast  of  the  season,  Lady  Lytton  Leycester  !  The  in- 
evitable years,  the  experiences  of  life,  had  written  a  few 
lines  about  Jack's  eyes,  still  he  looked  very  much  the  same. 

"  Stylish  man,  your  countryman  !"  said  a  young  captain 
to  Rose. 

The  young  man  had  an  honest,  simple  face,  and  he 
looked  with  wonder  at  the  sudden  aversion,  disgust,  and 
anger  which  was  depicted  on  the  face  of  his  pretty  neighbor. 

"  Mr.  Townley  has  just  come  from  China,  I  believe," 
said  the  captain. 

"  I  wonder  where  he  has  left  her"  thought  Rose,  dream- 
ily, as  she  remembered  the  parlor  in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  th« 
cemetery  in  the  little  French  village.  But  no  one  asked 
for  her. 

"These  Americans  never  seem  to  like  each  other,"  said 
the  young  captain  to  his  friend  Mellish,  as  they  criticised 
Lady  Lytton  Leycester,  and  pronounced  her  "  good  form." 


A   TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  305 

"  I  would  not  bow  to  Jack  Townley  to-day,"  said  Rose 
to  her  husband  that  evening  after  the  garden-party. 

"  It  would  not  be  wise,  dear,"  said  he,  "  the  world  does 
not  exclude  him." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  unwise,"  said  she. 

It  hurt  Jack  Townley  very  much  to  be  so  decidedly  cut 
by  Rose.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  it.  He  had  seen 
this  girl  first ;  he  had  known  the  wild  rose  in  the  Western 
wilderness.  He  had  recognized  all  her  beauty  and  charm 
then.  Had  he  been  certain  about  Pascal  Chadwick's  fort- 
une he  would  have  married  her,  he  reflected,  then  and 
there,  for  if  he  had  ever  been  in  love  it  was  with  her. 
But  he  had  allowed  Hathorne  Mack  to  sow  doubt  and  dis- 
trust, and  on  the  evening  of  the  famous  Masquerade  he 
had  believed  what  Mack  had  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  the 
next  day  parted  with  his  interest  in  the  silver-mine.  He 
had  seen  Rose  in  her  awkward  moments,  in  her  hour  of 
sorrow,  in  her  days  of  tribulation ;  but  he  had  never  ex- 
pected to  see  her  as  he  saw  her  now,  with  that  look  upon 
her  face  of  perfect  happiness,  without  a  shadow  to  dim 
the  brightness  of  hope,  or  a  past  experience  which  could 
embitter  or  make  her  fearful  of  the  future.  The  priceless 
illusions  of  youth  had  been  brushed  away  to  make  room  for 
a  destiny  more  rare  and  perfect  than  any  of  which  she  had 
dreamed.  No  more  radiant  outlook  for  the  future  could  a 
woman  have  than  that  which  opened  before  Rose ;  and  as  his 
critical  eye  swept  over  the  details  of  dress,  demeanor,  and 
attitude,  he  felt  that  Rose  had  conquered  them  all. 

But  the  deadly  aversion  which  marked  her  expression  as 
she  looked  at  him !  It  remained  to  haunt  him  like  a  curse. 
Had  he  only  known,  had  he  been  a  little  wiser,  he  might 
have  gathered  this  flower,  and  have  saved  his  soul  one 


306  A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE. 

dreadful  stain  of  guilt  and  sin ;  there  would  have  been  one 
home  less  dishonored.  But  Sir  Lytton  Leycester  had  been 
the  lucky  man — he  had  got  it  all. 

He  saw  the  once  ignorant  girl,  who  had  rushed  across 
the  room  at  Delraonico's  to  speak  to  him,  now  a  queen  of 
society. 

Truly,  society  is  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made !  How 
complex  are  its  functions ;  how  delicate  its  organization ; 
but  how  feeble  are  its  instincts !  How  little  does  it  recog- 
nize and  estimate  involuntary  action  at  its  real  value  !  what 
mistakes  we  all  make  in  it — what  tricks  our  brains  play  us 
sometimes ! 

Whatever  Jack  Townley  thought  of  society  just  then, 
however,  was  lost  in  the  immense  disgust  with  which  he 
thought  of  himself. 

The  self-reproaches  of  an  unsuccessful  snob  must  be 
most  bitter;  for  he  had  not  been  true  to  his  own  party 
himself.  His  old  friend  Harriet  refused  to  bow  to  him ; 
so  let  us  hope  that,  spite  of  his  bold  eyes  and  somewhat 
defiant  manner,  the  Lady-killer  is  receiving  his  reward. 

Society,  as  we  have  read,  admits  no  obstacles  to  the  de- 
mands of  its  all-comprehending  activity ;  it  accepts  no  re- 
fusals ;  it  stands  forward  in  its  force  as  a  recognized  public 
necessity;  as  a  valued  public  right  it  knocks  imperiously 
at  all  doors — it  calls  on  the  whole  world  to  come  out  and 
participate  in  the  universal  mob  ;  and  then  it  takes  the 
liberty  of  rejecting  many,  of  eating  its  own  words,  and  of 
going  back  on  itself,  and  no  one  knows  who,  or  what,  or 
where  "  Society "  is.  It  is  a  great  impersonal  power,  a 
Juggernaut,  whose  wheels  either  elevate  or  crush  us,  as  the 
power  within  decides;  who  wields  that  power,  and  by 
what  right,  nobody  can  tell. 


A    TRANSPLANTED    ROSE.  307 

"  Society  "  scarcely  ever  has  a  virtuous  fit,  but  when  it 
does  it  is  very  terrible.  Some  rather  innocent  scapegoat 
is  usually  selected  as  the  victim  for  the  sins  of  the  people. 
But  Rose,  our  heroine,  has  done  with  all  these  problems. 
She  has  drawn  one  of  the  prizes  in  life's  lottery,  and  she 
has  risen  to  the  top  of  the  wheel  without  losing  character 
or  self-respect. 

And  now  has  come  to  her  a  dearer  study — the  ideal  of 
Home.  The  national  type  of  Home  in  England  (not  the 
modern  fashionable  one)  is  a  high  one.  The  national  sen- 
timent of  Home  is  a  beautiful  one.  The  son  collects  his 
scattered  sisters  under  his  roof;  his  family  duties  are  pre- 
eminent when  he  marries.  If  his  mother  retires  to  her 
dower-house,  he  is  still  the  guardian  and  friend  to  her,  as 
when  she  was  the  mistress  of  the  great  house. 

Sir  Lytton  is  not  one  of  those  Englishmen  who  write 
"  No  Admission  for  Strangers  "  on  the  lintels  of  his  house. 
He  and  his  American  wife  have  much  of  the  broad,  genial 
American  hospitality  enamelled  on  their  true  English  solid 
comfort. 

And  Rose,  who  had  never  known  what  a  "  home  "  meant, 
clasped  those  old  stone  walls  with  all  the  tendrils  of  her  af- 
fectionate nature  as  closely  as  does  the  ivy,  and,  like  that, 
she  every  year  adds  a  more  tender  grace,  a  fresh  perennial 
charm,  to  the  dignified  English  home.  "  You  are  a  great 
compliment  to  my  skill  as  a  gardener,  my  '  Transplanted 
Rose,' "  says  her  husband  to  her,  as  he  touches  with  caress- 
ing hand  a  lovely  and  blooming  cheek. 

THE   END. 


Harper's 
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With    Frontispiece    Portraits    of   Authors 

THE    HOUSE-BOAT    ON   THE    STYX.     By 

JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS.    Illustrated. 
THE    PURSUIT    OF    THE    HOUSE-BOAT. 

By  JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS.    Illustrated. 
THE  WAR  OF  THE  WORLDS.      By  H.  G. 

WELLS.    Illustrated. 
A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories. 

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PEMBROKE.    By  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 
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LIFE    ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI.      By   MARK 

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THE    COAST    OF    BOHEMIA.      By   W.    D. 

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A    LITTLE    JOURNEY    IN    THE    WORLD. 

By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 
THE  DESCENDANT.    By  ELLEN  GLASGOW. 
THE  REFUGEES.     By  A.  CONAN  DOYLE. 
A  TRANSPLANTED  ROSE.    By  MRS.  JOHN 

SHERWOOD. 

ROWENY  IN  BOSTON.  By  MARIA  LOUISE 
POOL. 

A  STRANGE  MANUSCRIPT  FOUND  IN  A 
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PETER  IBBETSON.  By  GEORGE  DU  MAU- 
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